


Our Hollow-Hearted Halcyon

by coyotecorpse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dissociation, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John and Mary Break Up, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Irene Adler, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mutual Pining, No Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, Serbia Fic, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is a Mess, Suicidal John Watson, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, i swear this will end happily, its literally an unnamed man who sherlock sleeps with in a very nongraphic scene, not between john and sherlock, she doesn't come between them, this shit gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotecorpse/pseuds/coyotecorpse
Summary: “What’s going on?”“An apology. It’s all true.”It isn’t; true that is. He’s lying, and somehow this little lie causes a chasm to rip open in his chest. It doesn’t make much sense; it being the pain this little lie is causing him. He’s about to die, but his mind has latched itself onto the small lies he keeps spewing to John. He thinks for a moment that he’s displacing his anxieties. Being worried about the small lies is much easier than thinking about the big one.(trigger warnings will be listed before each chapter. please read the tags. updates every week on Tuesday or Wednesday)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 48
Kudos: 109





	1. Lily Of The Valley

**Author's Note:**

> tw for fake suicide and vague suicidal ideation.
> 
> Sherlock falls and John is left with aftermath.  
> John lives and Sherlock has to keep it that way.

“What’s going on?”

“An apology. It’s all true.”

It isn’t; true that is. He’s lying, and somehow this little lie causes a chasm to rip open in his chest. It doesn’t make much sense; it being the pain this little lie is causing him. He’s about to die, but his mind has latched itself onto the small lies he keeps spewing to John. He thinks for a moment that he’s displacing his anxieties. Being worried about the small lies is much easier than thinking about the big one.

He is about to fake his death. Sherlock Holmes is about to die and John Watson will be forced to watch. He will come out of this ultimately alive, but he will no longer be Sherlock Holmes, not really. He will become a nameless man traveling the world with an axe to grind. 

“Wh-what?” John’s voice wavers and the chasm becomes deeper.

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

He turns, belstaff fluttering in the wind. Moriarty’s blood is starting to pool in a sick viscous puddle around his head. Sherlock cannot help the victorious feeling that blossoms next to the chasm. 

“Why are you saying this?”

The flower wilts as quickly as it bloomed.

Even now with Sherlock saying what everyone in London is starting to believe, John is hesitant. John believes, believes in Sherlock in a way that no one else ever has. John thinks he’s being forced to lie, and, in a deeply convoluted yet simple way, he is. His doctor was always so clever, so loyal. He’s going to miss that. 

His eyes begin to wet, a physiological response he hasn’t experienced since his adolescence, one he wishes he could delete from his body. He crumples his emotions and stuffs them into a lock box. He then buries the box in a forgotten hole in his mind palace, lost in some hallway far away from the forefront of his mind. This is no time for distractions.

Despite his efforts, his voice cracks as he responds, “I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock…”

The very sound of his name coming from John’s mouth makes the tears return. God, he hates this. 

He faintly remembers Molly’s words from earlier. “You look sad when you think he can’t see you.” She was right then; she often was, such a clever woman. He wishes now that her words were more true, that they applied to every situation. Here, on the edge of death, John’s steady gaze is only making him more emotional. It’s dreadful, truly.

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

He can see the anger form on John’s face even from a distance, the way his brows furrow and his mouth forms a tight line. He’s going to miss that as well, the way John expresses emotion so clearly, the way John _feels_. 

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met,” he pauses like he’s struggling to think. “ The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

He remembers that day so clearly; it gave him John afterall. He remembers the other man’s amazement, his wonder. John’s excitement had overshadowed his shock which intrigued Sherlock in a way that usually only a dead body could. John saw danger and smiled, saw Sherlock and smiled. That day had been one of the best in his life.

The life he is about to end.

“No one could be that clever.” For a second, he believes his own words. If he was truly that clever, he wouldn’t be here on the edge of Bart’s roof.

But John is a believer, always has been. “You could.”

The laugh that escapes him is humorless, an empty little rasp. A tear drips down his chin. He never felt weaker than when John looked at him like this, like he was worth something.

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you,” he sniffles. “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.” He isn’t sure why he says it. Maybe because it’s the truth; maybe to assuage his own guilt. His lip trembles, desperate to spew more of the truth. John’s eyes are clenched shut and he’s shaking his head rapidly. Sherlock is hurting him; it is so obvious now. All his attempts to push John away did no good; John still cares far too much. He thought that after the ‘monster’ comment John had given up on him, but he must have been wrong because John is talking angrily into the phone and moving towards the hospital doors.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock Holmes has misjudged John Watson.

“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” He doesn’t even try to keep the urgency out of his voice. He needs John to stay put, to see what Sherlock has planned, and apparently emotional appeals work well in situations like these (not that there had ever been a situation like this ever before).

John looks back up at him, backing away in surrender. He raises the hand not holding the phone to make sure Sherlock knows he’s given up. 

“All right.”

Sherlock’s breath comes out uneven as panic sets in; he reaches his hand out over the edge towards John. “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?” John’s voice is just as frantic as Sherlock’s. 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

John pulls the phone away from his ear, stress and realization obvious on his face. He’s beginning to realize what Sherlock is about to do. His eyes are shut tight as he shakes the thoughts from his head. This can’t be what he thinks it is. It _can’t_ be. 

“Leave a note when?” He says despite knowing exactly what Sherlock means.

The chasm rips open wider, cracking open Sherlock’s chest like a meat cleaver. He hopes that John understands that this is breaking him as well, but he knows that hope is useless. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Caring isn’t an advantage. All hearts break. His brother’s mantras echo through his skull. They don’t help. They never have.

“Goodbye, John.”

Sherlock allows himself to truly look down at the concrete below before turning his gaze back to John. He’s saying something into the phone, but Sherlock cannot bear to listen any longer. The phone falls with a soft clatter and Sherlock can feel the wind drift up his coat. John has also put his phone down. It won’t do any good anymore.

“No!” 

Sherlock spreads his arms, feeling the tears sticking to his cheeks.

“SHERLOCK!”

He plummets, belstaff fluttering behind him. The world watches him fall. His world watches him fall.

“Sher…” It’s no more than a whisper. It falls on deaf ears.

The thud is the worst part. It’s a gut-wrenching crack that makes John’s whole body cringe. He realizes belatedly that he’s running. He can’t see Sherlock anymore; he needs to see Sherlock. He’s almost around the building; he can see the mess of ebony curls on the ground. Oh god, even from a distance he can see the halo of blood.

The concrete is hard underneath him, jostling his bum shoulder as the idiot biker knocks him over. He groans, vision blurry from the impact. His ears are ringing but he has to get to Sherlock. He has to. He pushes through the pain as he moves forward. He can see Sherlock better now but soon his vision is obscured by on-lookers. He shoves past them, ignoring grabbing hands and upset voices. He’s muttering Sherlock’s name like a prayer.

“I’m a doctor, let me come through.” His pleading does no good, so he shoves even harder. “Let me come through, please.”

He’s so close. He can see the blood and the way Sherlock’s hair sticks repulsively to his skin. “No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend.” His voice breaks as he desperately tries to force his way through the crowd. His head is still spinning, ears ringing, and shoulder burning. 

He finally gets Sherlock’s wrist in his hand. There’s no pulse. There’s no pulse. Why isn’t anyone helping? Why is no one stopping the bleeding or starting cpr? Someone pulls him away from the body, prying his fingers from Sherlock’s colorless wrist. The crowd splits to make room for the medics. He needs to go with him. He needs to help Sherlock now more than ever.

“Please. Just let me.” The ringing becomes so loud it hurts. His head feels like it’s splitting open. His knees buckle underneath him, scraping against the pavement that’s stained with his best friend’s blood. The on-lookers catch him but their concern is useless. Someone rolls Sherlock’s body in order to get it on the stretcher. His eyes are empty pools of blue. John nearly vomits at the sight. “Jesus. No.” He’d thought he’d get used to losing friends by now, but nothing could’ve ever prepared him for this, for the blood dripping down Sherlock’s perfect cheekbones.

He tries to stand, legs wobbling like a newborn deer. Sherlock’s body is being wheeled away, limp on the stretcher. He sinks back to the concrete. His eyes follow the medics as they haul his life away. He’s never felt so empty.

When he finally gets to his feet, Sherlock is gone and his world has flipped upside down.

The funeral is a somber affair. Sherlock would have hated it. Boring people wearing boring suits doing boring things. His parents aren’t there but Mycroft is. He disappears quickly after the main service, slipping away almost unnoticed. John almost wants to go after him, to shout abuse at the man who pushed Sherlock to the very edge, but he sits silently on the uncomfortable church pew. He doesn’t even know why they bothered holding the funeral in a church. Sherlock didn’t believe in god. 

Molly is sitting in the back corner, eyes leveled with the ground. She looks so guilty that John worries for a moment that she may be blaming herself for Sherlock’s death, but he shuts the thought down. He knows that everyone mourns differently, and he shouldn’t project his own insecurities onto poor, innocent Molly.

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are sat next to each other on the pew adjacent to John. Mrs. Hudson is sobbing softly into Lestrade’s shoulder as the man seems to hold back tears. John thinks, distantly, that he should be crying as well, but he can’t find it in him. He still feels so hollow inside like Sherlock had been the only thing in the world to make him feel. He’s a gutted version of the man he used to be.

Before he knows it, the funeral is over and the meager gathering is moving on. The world keeps on spinning even with Sherlock Holmes six feet underground. 

He stands with Mrs. Hudson at the grave. She brought flowers. Sherlock probably would’ve said something about flower language and how the specific flowers she’s holding mean something wildly inappropriate for the scenario. She’s shifting awkwardly back and forth on her heels. It’s obvious that she has something to say so John shoots her a kind glance. It falls a bit flat but it must give her some confidence because she begins to talk.

“There’s all the stuff, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don’t know what needs doing. I thought I’d take it to a school,” She pauses looking at John with pity. “Would you?”

He freezes under her gaze. “I can’t go back to the flat again... not at the moment.” Maybe later when the wound isn’t so fresh, when he can breathe without it aching.

She reaches out, gently grasping his arm. She has such a comforting presence. Sherlock would never say it outloud but he adored her. Her motherly kindness, however, only serves to make John more upset, filled with reminders of the family he no longer has.

“I’m angry.”

The statement isn’t exactly untrue. He is angry deep deep down. He’s angry at himself, at Mycroft, and at Sherlock. He’s angry at Mrs. Hudson and her soft hands on his wrist. He’s angry at the gravestone and at the stupid flowers. He’s also empty in a way that not even the war could cause, so terribly empty.

He takes a shuddered breath through his nose. Mrs. Hudson, ever so kind, pats his arm softly with a sad smile on her lips.

“It’s okay, John. There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way he made everyone feel.” He knows she’s just trying to comfort him but a flicker of rage lights up inside him. Sherlock may have been an ass to a lot of people but he was different with John. He made John feel things that even war couldn’t. To simplify it into something that Sherlock gave everyone felt traitorous, blasphemous even.

He stares into the black marble as Mrs. H goes on about how much harder Sherlock had made her life. The headstone is plain, only having Sherlock’s name engraved on it. It simultaneously fits the other man and doesn’t. Part of John thinks that Sherlock would have loved to have a stupidly ornate headstone. The man was a pretentious twat on his best days and the sleek elegance of the headstone doesn’t really represent the parts of Sherlock that John got to witness every day. It did, however, represent the Sherlock that the public got to know very well. He was a blunt, well-dressed asshole who solved the unsolvable, a man who needed no introduction. He was simply Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and nothing more. 

He was so much more to John.

“And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice breaks through the wall of thoughts causing John to turn to her.

He doesn’t mean to be rude, but he cannot stand to hear her say one more thing about the man buried beneath their feet. “Yeah, listen. I-I’m not really that angry, okay?”

His words are clipped and she pulls away, letting his arm slip free. It’s clear that he’s hurt her in some way, but he can’t find it in him to apologize, the words sticking like sandpaper in his throat. He distantly hears her say something about leaving him alone. He appreciates it, he really does, because he isn’t sure how much longer he can pretend to be holding it together.

“Uhm... Yo-you told me once that you weren’t a hero,” he pauses, collecting his thoughts. “Uh, there were times when I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and most human… human being that I’ve ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so… There.”

He lets out a shaky breath, whimpering quietly into the empty air. He glances back to see if Mrs. Hudson is looking before reaching out and ghosting his fingers over the headstone, touching it in a way he never got to touch Sherlock. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to confess his thanks to a dead man. He missed his chance. He lost the best friend he could have ever asked for and there is nothing he can do about it. Not even the great Sherlock Holmes could beat death, but John is a believer, so he asks just to be sure.

“No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t ... be ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it,” He gestures almost violently at the grave. “Stop this.” 

He lowers his head, tears stinging his eyes. He can faintly see his reflection in the black marble, SHERLOCK is carved neatly across his chest. How fitting. How fucking fitting. He brings a hand to his face and allows himself a moment to mourn before standing at attention. He gives Sherlock’s headstone one quick salute, one last hoorah for a fallen friend, before turning on his heel in dismissal.

The tree lined graves make for good cover, not good enough to truly excuse him being here, but decent enough to allow him safety from John’s observant gaze. Mycroft wanted to get him out of the country earlier but Sherlock has never been one to take orders. He had to see John one last time. He is nothing if not a selfish man.

He turns away from his own grave and towards the black town car at the edge of the grass. He can feel Mycroft’s worry and annoyance even from a distance. Their relationship isn’t the best, but he knows that Mycroft cares for him in his own icy way.

He sits in the plush backseat and stares wistfully out the tinted window, mind lingering on John’s words. I owe you so much. If anything, it was Sherlock who owed John.

“Please refrain from getting your sentiment all over my leather seats. I just had them cleaned.” Mycroft’s voice is characteristically cold, but Sherlock isn’t an idiot. He can see the worry in his big brother’s eyes, so he bites back the most vicious reply. Mycroft is losing here as well. Not the same loss nor the same lie, but Sherlock understands how much Mycroft has given up for his sake. It’s an inopportune time to decide to be a better little brother but Sherlock Holmes is not known for his timing either.

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

He does. The ride to Heathrow is unbearably silent, so he slips into his mind palace, desperate to hear John’s voice again. He plays John’s little speech over and over again in his head so many times it almost feels like a love letter. He crushes that thought, stuffs it into the lock box he has since titled A Bit Not Good, and buries it back into the dark hole he got it from. He can’t lose focus now after all he’s done.

The car slows down by the runway. A private plane will be taking him to Romania where he will spend a few days preparing before moving further into Eastern Europe on foot. He will have limited contact with Mycroft from here on out and it is clearly causing his brother much worry.

“Try not to stress eat too much while I’m gone.”

Mycroft scoffs, eyes locked with the plane in front of them. “Try not to give me a reason to, alright, brother mine?”

Sherlock nods, but they both know that they have no real control over what is coming next.

  
  



	2. Pennyroyal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two weeks since the fall and nothing seems to be going very well, for anyone.
> 
> CW: references to heavy drinking, vomiting, and fake suicide.

Bucharest is a hell hole. The sheets are too soft underneath him, the pillows are too firm, and the color of the walls is making him sick. He hasn’t gotten a good night's sleep since his flight landed. He is simultaneously incredibly ready to leave and not. On one hand, the longer he lays in bed pondering his next move the longer it will take home to John. On the other hand, leaving Bucharest means falling into the deep end of the mission, and he isn’t sure if he’ll be coming home at all.

His next real stop is Kazakhstan; Moriarty had just barely sunk his claws into Almaty when he ate that bullet on Bart’s roof. All his intell points to it being a small operation with little security, just a handful of drug traffickers with little experience. It will be the easiest of the webs to take down, but Sherlock knows better than to underestimate it. Moriarty had caught him with his guard down once; he won’t let it happen again.

A shiver runs down his spine, a cocktail of rage and cold. The weather is frigid this early in the year and Sherlock can’t stand it. He wishes he killed himself later in the year. Maybe June would’ve suited him better. 

Probably not. If there was thing he hated more than the cold, it was heat.

His coat, his gorgeous coat, is sitting in some box in some unknown location, soaked in fake blood. Maybe Lestrade put it in evidence lock up; maybe Molly has it in the morgue; maybe Mycroft has his dirty paws on it. It doesn’t really matter; it won’t help him here. 

Almaty tends to be colder than Bucharest this time of year, so Sherlock will have to wear something thicker than his Belstaff anyway. Mycroft has outfitted him with some fur lined monstrosity. It’s too heavy and makes him feel slow, but it’s either wear it or freeze. It does do a good job at hiding the gun he’s started carrying which is important. He isn’t legally allowed to have it and losing it isn’t really an option.

He shifts in the stupidly comfortable bed. He hates this place. Mycroft has him set up in some posh 5 star hotel that makes his skin crawl. He is so damn tired of men in suits and hushed conversation in Romanian. A place like this offers privacy and nothing else. Money goes a long way in this world and Mycroft has more money than anyone would know what to do with. Sherlock half-wishes he was on the road already

It isn’t possible to fly him into Almaty; it would be far too obvious. He’ll have to hide in a truck hauling car parts which will carry him over the border into Ukraine. Once in Ukraine, he’ll slowly make his way through the countryside, purposefully avoiding major cities, and over the border into Russia. Once in Russia, it will be easy enough to catch a ride into Kazakhstan, but the whole plan hinges on him being able to roll over and actually do what needs to be done in time for him to catch the truck.

It shouldn’t take long to pack seeing as he left most of his belongings back in London, but he still lingers in bed, eyes locked with the thin yellow curtains. He hates them almost as much as he hates the ugly egg-shell walls. Despite his hatred, the idea of leaving the place continues to pin him against the sheets like an ornate butterfly on an entemoligist's wall.

He has some time to ponder his predicament. The sun hasn’t truly risen yet, lazily peeking over the horizon. He can see the small slivers of light flow through the window. If the alarm clock on the nightstand can be trusted, it’s 6:19am. That means it’s 4am back home; he wonders briefly if John is sleeping well, but he shakes the thought away. He has more pressing matters to worry about. Such as the truck leaving at 9am sharp with or without him on it. 

3 hours. 

3 hours until he truly disappears into the underworld of Moriarty’s creation.

He rolls over, putting his back to the disgustingly yellow curtains. He needs to pack, get dressed, go over the plan with Mycroft, and practice his languages. He won’t be able to rely on English for much longer.

He goes over his Russian and Romanian first. He can read and write both languages near perfectly, but his speech is rusty. He doesn’t get to practice his pronunciation often enough to pass as a local, but he is better than the average tourist. If he doesn’t get better fast, he’ll be easy to spot. A man who knows good enough Russian to understand complex sentences with local vernacular but can’t speak it without it being laced with a clear british accent will raise suspicion. He’d never forgive himself for allowing such an idiotic thing to ruin his mission, not after what he’s sacrificed.

The sun rises while Sherlock repeats key phrases over and over again, softly under his breath. He has 3 hours to be perfect. 3 hours to pack. 3 hours to prepare himself for a case without his doctor by his side.

He sighs, stumbling over his own tongue. He’s screwed.

2091 kilometres away John rolls over on the uncomfortable hotel mattress. It’s 4am and he can’t sleep. He’s been staying at a hotel for the past few days. He’d originally been crashing at Harry’s, but she had fallen off the wagon pretty hard and two drunk Watsons in a small space is never a good idea.

John has never considered himself an alcoholic, but he has been known to put a few away. Since Sherlock fell (always fell, never died), he’s been struggling to keep his drinking in check. He knows addiction runs in families. His father was a drunk, his sister is a drunk, and now he’s tossing around in a hotel bed surrounded by empty beer bottles. The apple never really does fall far from the tree.

He knows he’s still welcome at 221b; Mrs. Hudson has made that incredibly clear. She calls at least once a day to ask if he’s going to come home soon. The first few times she rang he had made some vague excuses about it being too painful. Now, he doesn’t even answer the phone, just listens to her voice mails with a somber grimace on his face. Greg tries to reach him as well. The texts aren’t intrusive but John hates them anyway. He doesn’t mean to be so angry at the inspector, but everytime he thinks of the other man he thinks about how far Donovan and Anderson had pushed Sherlock, how Greg just watched it happen.

He grips the duvet and throws it off his body. Even thinking about it now makes him so angry he could burst. Greg was supposed to be Sherlock’s friend and he’d accused him of being a fraud. He’d let Sally work her way under his skin and turn him against one of the best men in London. 

The mostly empty bottle by the bed looks more and more tempting with each passing moment, but he doesn’t drink it. He needs to be sober tomorrow. He’s running out of grief-leave pretty damn quick and honestly, he misses work. The monotony of hospital life is his last hope for balance, for normalcy. He can’t keep living like this.

His therapist suggested he start blogging again as well. She doesn’t seem to understand why he can’t. There are plenty of cases that he hasn’t published yet, but they all involve Sherlock, the same Sherlock who splattered himself all over the concrete two weeks ago outside of the same hospital John works at. The Sherlock who half of London still thinks is a fraud. 

John knows better, though. He knows because Sherlock would never, _never_ , lie to him. He just wouldn’t.

It’s also becoming clear to the people investigating Sherlock’s death that he was telling the truth. Lestrade tries to keep him updated on the case. He knows the other man is doing his best since he got chewed out by the brass for allowing Sherlock on crime scenes in the first place. It still rubs him the wrong way when Greg tells him about all the evidence they’re finding to prove Sherlock innocent. He always sounds so apologetic, so surprised that he was wrong. It makes John sick.

He gives the empty bottle one last longing glance before getting to his feet. His knee has been giving him hell again recently. He’s therapist knows it’s psychosomatic; she gives him this pitiful look every time he leans on his cane. He personally thinks it’s kind of funny in a pathetically ironic way. Sherlock got him off his cane and Sherlock made him need it again. God must love a circular narrative.

It's too early to be awake and moving around, but John knows he won’t ever be able to get to sleep at this rate. His knee is aching, his head is beginning to throb, and his eyes feel heavier than ever before. 

He decides to slowly get dressed, knee making itself known with every shot of sharp pain. He’s sobering up which means a massive hangover is blooming behind his eyes. He hasn’t been truly sober in about 3 days. He’d just kept chasing off his hangovers with cheap beer and whiskey. He thought at first that getting drunk would make him emotional, that by lowering his inhibitions he’d finally sob about the loss of his friend. It doesn’t. He still hasn't let himself truly cry; tears occasionally well up but he never lets them slip. He isn’t sure why. His therapist says he’s refusing to mourn; it doesn’t make much sense. All he’s been doing is mourning.

Once dressed, he grabs his cane and leaves the shitty room behind him. Walking is hard but the pain grounds him, reminds him how truly alive he is. The streets of London don’t feel like home anymore, not without Sherlock beside him, but he walks them anyway. He needs to do something to fill the time before work, before finally calling Mrs. Hudson back. He’s been running out of clean clothes anyway.

The sun doesn’t rise fast enough. John’s cold, achy, and miserable by the time the clock rolls over to an acceptable hour to call a mourning old woman. He struggles with the numbers on his phone, hands shaking with a mix of nervousness and the cold. He’s been so rude to her recently, leaving her to her grief while burying himself in his own. She deserves better; she never did anything to deserve the cold shoulder he’s been giving her.

Mrs. Hudson, still the kindest and strongest soul that John knows, answers on the second ring. Her voice is rough with sleepiness and her tone is panicked. “John! Darling, are you alright? What can I do for you?”

He stifles a small chuckle, the world didn’t deserve Mrs. Hudson. “Nothing, Mrs. H. I didn’t mean to wake you up. I was wondering when it would be a good time to swing by the flat?”

“You didn’t wake me! You know I always wake up around 7. I brought you tea enough times for you to know that,” she says with a mask of faux annoyance. “You’re welcome to come home whenever you want. The place has been so empty without you.”

“Uh...I’m not sure if I’m ready to move back in quite yet. I just need to grab some things.”

He hears her take a sharp breath, clearly disappointed by his answer. He feels a tad guilty for not being ready. Sherlock and him hadn’t been good tenants. The bullet holes in the wall are more than enough proof of that. Now, after all the shit she put up with, he’s leaving her with a messy flat and no time frame for his return. He knows that Mycroft is probably paying the rent, and shame flows through him. He couldn’t afford to go back if he wanted to, not without Mycroft’s help. Even after everything that’s happened, he needs a Holmes to help him get by. He’ll have to thank Mycroft after giving him a good punch to the jaw. He still hasn’t forgiven the man for his disappearing act at Sherlock’s funeral.

“That’s alright, sweety. Take your time. You can swing by whenever you're ready.”

“I’ll be ‘round after my shift. Shouldn’t be too long after 5,” he says with a slight shake in his voice. 

He hears Mrs. Hudson shuffle on the other end, the sound of a tea kettle scratching through his phone speaker. “That’s fine, John. You’re always welcome here.”

A pang shoots through his chest. He misses being there so much, almost as much as he misses Sherlock “Thanks, really. I’ll talk to you later, Hudders.”

“See you later, honey. Have a nice day at work.”

He hangs up, rubbing his free hand across his eyes. He’s exhausted and stressed beyond belief, but work waits for no man. He checks the time quickly. 7:23am. He needs to catch a cab now if he wants to make it to work on time. He hobbles over to the main road and waves, weight resting mostly on his cane.

Work is, predictably, boring. His co-workers treat him like glass and his patients are as annoying as usual. Ingrown toenails, headaches, and common colds make the day creep by slowly. The only eventful moment was his arrival. Even looking at the ambulance bay makes him sick and having to walk past the same piece of concrete that Sherlock had laid on made him short of breath. He knows anxiety attacks are common with trauma especially from someone who already went through hell in Afghanistan. This knowledge didn’t stop him from forcing his way through soft greetings and kind condolences once he finally got inside the god forsaken building.

Leaving is just as bad. He keeps his eyes straight forward, purposefully avoiding the sidewalk. His traitorous mind still wanders to Sherlock’s motionless body and the way his curls framed his face. His Belstaff had been wrapped under him like a blanket and his hand had been so limp in John’s. John watched him dive chest first, coat fluttering behind him like some kind of sick angel, right here. He’d been standing almost right _here_ when it happened.

John pauses, halfway to the road. How had Sherlock managed to land on his coat like that? He’d been laid out perfectly on his side despite falling face first.

He shakes his head, trying to force the images of his dead friend out of his mind. He shouldn’t think about it so much. He’s going to drive himself crazy thinking about Sherlock like that, thinking about Sherlock at all.

He hails a cab and easily gives the address. 221b Baker Street. His hand shakes and his knee aches. He pushes down the sick feeling rising in his throat, replacing it with the familiar emptiness he felt at the funeral. He has to get through this. Either that or buy new clothes. 

He snorts at the thought. He wonders if Mycroft would furnish that as well.

Mrs. Hudson insists on greeting him. She swings rapidly between mother-hening him and pitying him. He can only handle it for a couple of long minutes before heading up the steps. She tries to come with him, but he quickly declines. He’s not sure if he could keep it together in front of her. She seems to understand, giving him a knowing nod.

Getting up the stairs with his cane is difficult, making his already slow pace nearly imperceptible. His bones creak along with the wooden stairs. He remembers the days he spent listening at these same stairs, spotting the differences between Hudders and clients. Sherlock always loved to listen at him guess, the closest thing to a deduction that John was capable of. He pauses on the top step and wonders if his footsteps now sound like that of a stranger. Would he be able to recognize the sound of his own steps? He doesn’t think he could. He can barely recognize himself in the mirror nowadays.

The front door falls open with a low whine. The flat is practically unchanged; he can tell that Mrs. Hudson has moved some of Sherlock’s science equipment but other than that it is like time has been frozen. His chair is still there though slightly more dusty. Sherlock’s violin sits unplayed in its case.

It feels wrong. 

It feels empty _._

Sherlock should be here, pacing the floors and rambling about cigarette ash or hair samples. The news should be playing. Sherlock should be throwing things or experimenting or _something_. 

John’s only notices how hard he’s shaking when his cane slips from his grasp. He grabs at the door frame, moving further inside and away from any prying eyes. Dust has coated the entire flat, leaving the place grimy. It isn’t that big of a change, really. He laughs humorlessly. Sherlock hated cleaning almost as much as he hated boredom.

He limps forward towards the couch. He can almost see Sherlock there, perched on the edge with his fingers under his chin. He sits down next to the ghost of his friend, hand running gracelessly over the seam of the couch cushion.

He isn’t sure if he can even make it to his bedroom. Just sitting here is making him feel sick, so fucking sick. Anger and sadness and confusion are all building up inside of him. He is a mixed drink that’s two parts fury and 1 part anguish. 

The curtains allow for the sun shine uselessly on the floor in front of him. He’s always hated those curtains. Sherlock had gotten them stained with blood and chemicals so many times and he never bothered to clean them. They basically served as an over-sized napkin, soaking up Sherlock’s messes. The yellow color is warped especially at the bottom; the ends are frayed and possibly a little scorched. John isn’t quite sure which. Sherlock usually refrained from telling him about the experiments that caused property damage. John will probably never know what really happened.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, knocking the air out of his lungs.

He will never know. He will never get to hear Sherlock explain an experiment, or insult the telly, or shout at the wall, or play music at 3am. This place will never have Sherlock in it again. He will never take up space on this stupid couch again. He will never again stain the curtains.

John jumps to his feets, hand clasped over his mouth. He stumbles, nearly falling, to the bin. He vomits up the meager breakfast he had at Bart’s. The taste of old alcohol stings his throat. His knee crumbles out from under him, leaving him half-sprawled on the floor. 

Tears sting his eyes and for the first time since Sherlock’s fall, John cries. He sobs into the bin because Sherlock is gone, because his knee is on fire, because he's so angry at himself for not stopping him, because the emptiness in his chest is suddenly an overwhelming feeling of agony. He’s pretty sure Mrs. Hudson can hear him downstairs, but he can’t stop now. The floodgates have opened.

He sits on the floor for a long time, tears streaming down his face. He reaches for his cane which is still lying by the door. He struggles to get to his feet, vision blurry with tears. He waddles painfully towards his bedroom, doing everything in his power to avoid looking at Sherlock’s bedroom door.

It doesn’t work. His eyes are drawn to the slightly ajar door. He shuffles towards it, letting it creak open. He’s never really been in there before, never had a reason to be in there before. It’s not really what he expected. It’s clean other than the dust. There are books stacked on the nightstand and there are several soft blankets strewn across the duvet.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s touching the bed. His fingers ghost softly over the dark purple fabric. It reminds him of that shirt Sherlock wore sometimes. He wore it in Baskerville a few months before...before the fall. John loved that shirt. Sherlock looked good in it; Sherlock always looked good when he wanted to. John always thought it was funny that the press only ever got to see Sherl at his best dressed. The man walked into Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet but refused to be on camera in anything less than a button up and slacks. He wore softer things occasionally, only when it was just him and John, jumpers that cost more than John’s paycheck and soft pajama pants.

John leans down onto the bed, tears still dripping down his face. It’s much softer than the shit bed back in the motel room. He lets himself sit down, sinking into the plush softness. 

It smells like Sherlock. It _smells_ like Sherlock even after all the time that’s passed. It smells like his stupidly expensive shampoo and his even more expensive aftershave. 

He smells the same scents he smelled three weeks ago when Sherlock had brushed so close during a case. The man never had any idea what personal space was when it came to other people. John misses it so much more than he lets himself believe.

He almost can’t force himself to get up, but he has to go back to the hotel and gather his things. He also has to tell Mrs. Hudson he will be staying. Mycroft’s wallet be damned; John wasn’t going to leave this little bubble of Sherlock until he absolutely has to.

He cleans his face haphazardly, not really caring if Mrs. Hudson sees. He hobbles down the steps right as she pops out of her place. She had clearly been waiting for him to leave.

“You don’t have any bags?”

He almost laughs at her eagerness. “Nope, I’ve decided to stay after all. This place is closer to work than Harry’s anyway.”

She smiles so wide that John doesn’t even feel bad about the white lie. “That’s amazing, sweety! When can I expect you back? I’ll make some biscuits.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. H. I’ll be back sometime after dinner. I’ve got to go collect my things.”

“Well, no matter what you say I’ll be bringing you your morning tea. I keep making too much out of habit.”

He smiles at her, eyes soft. She truly is a blessing. “That sounds great, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you.”

She pats him on the back and sends him out the door.

John isn’t sure if this is a very good idea. He could barely stand to be in the flat for half an hour without losing it. He isn’t sure if he can handle spending the night, but the idea of sleeping surrounded by Sherlock’s scent is so enticing it shocks him. He tries not to think about what it means to miss the other man this much, but he knows he wants to feel close to him again. He knows that the only way he’ll be able to sleep is if he’s wrapped up in Sherlock’s stupid purple duvet.

He hails a cab and shakes his head. God, he’s screwed.

  
  


Greg rolls over in bed. He can hear Mycroft whisper-shouting into his phone. It’s 5am and far too early for Mycroft to be working especially in bed. His eyes adjust to low light and he can make his sort-of-lover’s frame by the doorway.

“Brother mine, if you don’t get out of bed right now, you’re never going to make it in time.”

Lestrade’s eyes widen at the pet name. He shifts closer to the edge of the bed, trying his best to hear what else Mycroft is saying.

“Just...Get ready. You aren’t making any progress just lazing around.”

There are a few more hushed words before he can hear Myc huff into the phone. He seemed angry and almost worried. Greg tries to roll back over to hide his eavesdropping, but Mycroft, no longer distracted by the call, spots his movement instantly. 

“Good morning, Gregory. Sorry I woke you.”

Greg sighs as he sits up, caught red-handed. “Who was on the phone?”

Mycroft rubs his temples like he’s fighting a headache. Greg can almost see the stress on his face. He reaches over and flips on the bedside lamp, illuminating Mycroft’s tense form.

“No-one important.”

He’s lying. Greg could see it even if he hadn’t heard the call. Mycroft likes to think he’s cunning but here, in the bedroom they’ve shared these past few weeks, he’s easy to read. He moves towards the bed and Lestrade scoots to make room for him. Myc accepts this nonverbal invitation and sits down next to his sleepy partner.

“You can tell me the truth, Myc. You know that, right?.”

Mycroft leans into Greg’s gentle embrace. It’s a natural fit, their bodies slipping together like puzzle pieces. They’ve been doing this for a while, since before Sherlock’s...incident. It had been very on and off in the beginning but since Sherlock got clean and John came into the picture, Mycroft has allowed Greg to stay with him more often, to care about him often. Sherlock’s death has caused some distance to form between them, but Greg didn’t think it’d impacted them as much as it clearly has. Mycroft is lying to him, hiding from him. He knew his little brother’s death would hurt, but Mycroft has been acting very close to normal. That in itself should have raised red flags, but Greg’s own grief clouded his judgment. Not anymore. He needs Mycroft to talk to him about whatever he just overheard.

“Yes, Gregory, I know that. It really was no-one important.” Myc’s voice is muffled with tiredness and Greg’s shoulder. He’s so close yet so far away. Greg’s heart aches.

“You callin’ just anyone ‘Brother Mine’ nowadays?”

Mycroft pulls away, standing up. Greg’s quicker than he is and grabs his lover’s hand. Mycroft pulls away and moves to his desk, rifling through his cabinet for something to drink. He tunes out Lestrade’s objections while pouring himself a glass of cognac. He’s half-way through the drink when Greg finally stands to join him.

“Myc, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I really fucking confused about what I just heard. I’d really appreciate an explanation.”

His voice is soft and comforting. It’s the same voice Mycroft knows he uses on victims. He scoffs into his drink. If anyone is a victim in this situation, it’s Lestrade.

“You’re a smart man. Put the pieces together yourself.” It’s mean, clipped short. He isn’t angry at the other man. No, Mycroft is angry with himself. He should've left the room when Sherlock called, he should’ve spoken more quietly.

Greg’s hand on his shoulder shakes him from his thoughts. “Well, I doubt you’d hide another Holmes sibling from me, so…” he pauses, putting the pieces together in his head. “Sherlock’s alive?”

He can hear the incredulous tone in his voice. What was it his brother always loved to say? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Greg takes his silence as confirmation. “What? WHY?”

He isn’t shouting but he is loud, standing so close to Mycroft that it makes him move back. He doesn’t want to look at his partner; he knows the betrayal in his eyes will nearly kill him. 

“It was the only way.”

Greg huffs, moving from shock to rage smoothly. “Does John know?! Huh? Molly? Mrs. Hudson?”

“Molly was an integral part of the plan, so, yes, she knows. But John and Mrs. Hudson cannot be told. You aren’t even supposed to know.”

Greg snarls at him, teeth bared like an angry dog. Mycroft sits his glass down and leans against his desk, surrendering to his lover’s anger. “Where the hell is that bastard? Were you ever gonna tell me? WERE YOU JUST GOING TO LET ME LOSE MY JOB IF WE DIDN’T PROVE HIM INNOCENT?” 

“I can’t tell you where he is. After today, I’ll probably not even know where he is,” he pauses, trying to think of the best phrasing. “I wasn’t going to tell you. It wasn’t going to get your hopes up in case he never returned. This mission he’s on is a dangerous one. We didn’t want you all to mourn twice.”

Lestrade’s face drops as he realizes what Mycroft is saying. Sherlock might truly be gone forever, might truly die.

“I’d never let you be fired. Not if I could help it. I know how much your job means to you.”

“Myc...just...why? Why would he do that to us? To John?”

Mycroft says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Him being alive was putting you all in danger. Him dying is the only way to keep you all safe,” Mycroft nearly whispers the next part. “Him staying dead is the only way to keep you alive.”

Greg yanks Mycroft off the desk and into his arms, burying his head in Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft slowly puts his arms around the other man, not used to being so close to another person. Greg stays there for a long time, just resting his head in the junction between Mycroft’s collarbone and shoulder. When he finally says something, it is nothing more than a soft murmur.

“I’m sorry, Myc.”

Mycroft’s heart aches in his chest, a feeling he hasn’t experienced since childhood. He can almost feel the ice melting behind his ribs. He tightens his grip on Lestrade.

“So am I, darling. So am I.”

He allows the shorter man to lead him back to bed. It’s clear that the discussion will be put off until later. It’s far too early for such an in depth discussion, and Mycroft can see the way Greg is starting to nod off on his feet.

As he lays there, looking at the best thing that has ever happened to him, Mycroft only has one thought.

_I’m screwed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god isn't the only one who loves a circular narrative so buckle up, hoes, this is gonna be a wild ride.
> 
> (not beta-read or brit picked)


	3. Oleander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wears a mask and Sherlock dreams of home.
> 
> tw: suicidal thoughts, self harm, vague references to pedophilia, vague references to sexual assault, a shit ton of violence, and major injuries to a main character. Please proceed with caution.

John is growing to hate 221b. Sleeping in Sherlock's room is the only thing that makes staying there worth it. Every time he ventures out of the little bubble of Sherlock he’s created he gets bombarded with emotion. He often can’t sit in the living room without crying. It's an odd sort of balance. He finds comfort in being surrounded by Sherlock's things but he simultaneously cannot stand to be reminded of the other man’s absence. He doesn’t eat in the flat, the fridge is constantly empty and the cabinets bare. Standing in the kitchen only serves to remind him of all the times Sherlock made him tea unprompted (even though it was poisoned a few of those times). Instead, he buries himself in Sherlock's sheets and hides from the ghost that lingers in the other rooms. The flat is always cold, the only warmth being under the purple duvet that smells of Sherlock's shampoo. Part of John finds it funny. He isn’t sure who’s haunting this place, him or Sherlock.

It’s been a month without his best friend and John isn’t getting better. His therapist says that grief takes time and part of John knows she means well, but it sounds like she thinks he’s overreacting. He knows he’s been irritable lately. He isn’t really angry anymore, only at himself truly, but rage is much easier to feel than sadness.

Sarah from work keeps asking him out, subtle requests for lunch. He always declines. He isn’t really interested in her, in anyone, anymore. He’s mourning and mourning isn’t really something one wants to experience on a date. Sarah, who Sherlock would call an oblivious idiot, never seems to take the hint. Despite how annoying it is to be constantly asked out, John is thankful she never pities him to his face. He can hear the whispers behind his back but unlike most of his other co-workers, Sarah never tells him she’s sorry for his loss. 

John hates that phrase, his loss as if Sherlock’s death wasn’t a loss to the whole world like all the other man was worth is John. It feels selfish to call it his loss. Sherlock paid the ultimate price and all people care about is how John feels, his loss.

John counts himself lucky seeing as his patients usually don’t recognize him. It’s easier to pretend that nothing has changed, that Sherlock isn’t gone, that John is okay. Patients don’t see him as an abandoned blogger; he’s their doctor and that’s all that matters. He can do that; he can play that role.

Greg and Molly keep messaging him. It’s becoming more bearable, but he still rarely answers. Meeting up is out of the question; he doesn’t want to see anyone right now. He loves them, but he met them through Sherlock. It feels wrong to see them without him, to continue to live their life without him. John lives his days on a strict schedule. He goes to work, eats a cheap breakfast at the hospital, goes out for an even cheaper lunch, and goes home to Sherlock’s room. 

He continues like this for 3 more months, slipping away slowly from everyone who cares about him. The seasons shift and the weather becomes warmer, but John stays the same, caught in an endless cycle of waking up, pretending to be someone he isn’t, and going home to face the ghosts that haunt him and 221b.

His friends move on in front of his very eyes, and he lets them. They‘re better off without him and the angry shell he’s become. Greg and Molly text less and less, Mrs. Hudson doesn’t attempt to make conversation when she brings him tea, and she doesn’t say a word when the next morning comes and the tea is still cold on the table, untouched. Even Sarah stops her advances and only waves hello when she sees John at work. It’s a blissful kind of peace, his self-made isolation. He doesn’t have to pretend to care about what they’re saying or that things are getting better. All he had to do was go to work and play the role of the kind doctor for people who don’t know him, who never knew him. 

Things change when a new nurse comes into Bart’s. She’s kind, empathetic towards patients, and never asks John how he is. He likes her because she’s almost always silent, never breaking his facade. 

Her name is Mary, he learns after she’s been there a few days. She smiles and brings him breakfast nearly every day. It clicks in his head soon after her arrival that she never knew Sherlock. There is finally a person in his life other than his patients that doesn’t know about Sherlock, about John’s life before the fall. John knows it’s manipulative but he doesn’t stop himself from letting her get closer. He lets her see the facade he’s built, the kindly doctor who definitely isn’t obsessed with danger. He lets her fall for the mask.

Mary finally asks him out a month after she arrived. He accepts, giving her the stupid smile he perfected in the weeks prior. He has a role to play and he has to play it well. He can be this for her, can pretend to be a better man. Sherlock would call him an idiot. John can almost hear him say it now. Why would anyone change who they are for another person? 

Before all this, he wouldn’t be able to give him a good answer. Why  _ would _ someone change for someone else? He knows why now; he wishes he didn’t.

You only change who you are when the person you used to be is too damaged to exist anymore.

Dr. John Hammish Watson is a ghost. He died alongside Sherlock Holmes on that infamous day in January, but the kind Dr. Watson from Bart’s lives on, a John who remains untouched by Sherlock’s existence, a John who never got to know the excitement that came with being next to the smartest man in the room and knowing he is your best friend. This fake John only exists with Mary and the patients, but he’s far better off than the John that sits in 221b nearly catatonic every day after work. He can live on, thrive without Sherlock Holmes; the real John, however, is stuck in limbo.

It takes 4 months for Mary to finally ask to see 221b. John is worried, deeply worried. He still can’t sit in the living room without breaking down. His therapist thinks he should tell Mary, that keeping that side of him away from her is only going to cause problems in the long run. He knows she’s right, but he can’t let go of the man he’s pretending to be. He knows Mary would probably support him through his grief, but he doesn’t want her to. He’s never going to get better, not without Sherlock.

He wakes up early for their at-home-date. Mary won’t be coming over till 6 but there is a lot of cleaning that needs to be done. He hasn’t really touched anything since he arrived 7 months ago. Even Sherlock’s room remains almost frozen in time.

He braces himself, taking deep, uneven breaths. He moves towards the hallway, hands already shaking. He’s not sure why he told Mary she could come over. He can’t erase Sherlock from this place, can’t hide the impact the man had on everything he touched here. John sighs. He could move some of Sherlock’s things to the spare room, but he’s not sure he wants to. Changing this place means admitting Sherlock isn’t coming back, and John isn’t ready to face that truth.

He decides once he’s in the living room that he’s just going to have to fake it till he makes it. He walks through the living room, glancing around for places that need cleaning. It’s a useless effort. Everything is a dusty mess. He really let this place go. Sherl’s desk is probably in the worst shape. Papers are strewn about and there are small jars filled with what John can only identify as ash. Mrs. Hudson must have not touched it when she came and collected some of Sherlock’s science stuff. It’s just the same as it was when Sherlock left that day. John can almost see him, lounging in his chair, deep in thought. His eyes were so bright and clear, staring right into John’s soul.

He’d called him a monster that day.

John freezes, eyes clenched tight. His breath comes out in a sick shutter. His eyes start to water as he stacks the papers. He doesn’t even try to keep the tears in. It’s a losing battle. 

He tried to tell Sherlock on the phone that day, that he never meant those words. Sherlock Holmes was not a monster nor was he a fraud. He just wishes he got to tell him before he fell that he meant everything to John, that he was a far better man than John could ever hope to be.

The desk looks cleaner when he’s done organizing. The papers are stacked up and all the pens are neatly in their cup. It looks good but John can’t help but think it looks wrong. It shouldn't be so neat. The jars of ash shouldn’t be in nice rows and the pens should be scattered, but John knows that it looks better this way. It matches the facade he’s built for Mary. This organization is nothing like Sherlock or John, but it does match the sweet Dr. Watson he’s pretending to be. 

He dusts the TV and all the bookshelves, choking back tears. He needs to get into character, needs to stop thinking about what used to be, what could have been. 

He cleans and cleans and cleans until the flat is cleaner than it ever was before. He mops the floor, sweeps, and even vacuums after. He hates it. This place is too neat now, far too quiet. The last time he spent a day cleaning Sherlock had played violin for him. He pretended to hate it then, called Sherl a lazy bastard, but he’d loved it. He loved the sound of Sherlock playing even when he was trying to work. He hadn’t been a fan of classical before moving in. That changed quickly once Sherlock started playing every night before bed. He misses it now more than ever, in the silence of his living room. It is so fucking empty now, so unlived in. 

He sends the violin case a dirty look. It mocks him, reminding him of what he can’t have anymore, but he doesn’t touch it. Moving it feels like a monumental task, a move he isn’t ready to make even now.

The kitchen is his next stop. It’s almost worse than the living room. It’s just as dusty and somehow more empty. The lack of experiments makes John’s stomach turn. He’s finally stopped crying but the emptiness is taking over. The headless fridge and toeless toaster make him feel like there’s a crack in his chest. His heart feels exposed, beating out into the open air. The chill creeps inside and he lets it, better to be cold than sobbing.

He bought some wine and ingredients on the way home yesterday so the cabinets aren’t completely bare anymore. He’s going to cook for Mary. It’s something he and Sherlock rarely did. It feels like something only the new him would do. It’s a part of his character and that somehow makes it harder.

He wishes he got to make dinner for Sherlock.

“Fuck.”

His hands start to shake so badly he can’t even clean. He glances at the clock. It’s only 12pm. He has 6 hours to force himself through this, to become a man who doesn’t need Sherlock in the same home they shared. 

The glass he’s holding clinks against the counter. He needs to shower and get dressed. He limps back through the hall, barely recognizing how cold he feels. It’s summer; he should be roasting. Pain shoots up his knee. He must be coming down with something; he pushes the thought away. He can’t be getting sick, not now. Mary will be here soon, and he’s going to have to be at his best to keep her from the truth.

Boiling water sprays from the shower-head. His skin turns a light shade of pink as he scrubs himself near raw, desperate to erase any lingering scent of Sherlock. It’s a stupid endeavor. Those sheets haven’t smelled like Sherlock in months, but John has to try. He has to get rid of all the places Sherlock touched, has to separate himself from the man he used to be. The John Mary wants to be with doesn’t belong to a ghost, he’s never been tainted by Sherlock Holmes. His shoulder and knee appreciate the heat, muscles relaxing under the running water. He chuckles darkly, tilting his head away from the spray. He’s never felt further from Sherlock than right here. It feels less like healing and more like dissociation. He leans forward, letting himself get lost in the spray. The sound of running water drowns out his thoughts. He can’t think about Sherlock anymore; he has to be the man Mary wants, the man he can be without feeling two steps from falling.

6pm comes quicker than John is ready for. He’s got dinner on the stove, a simple stir fry, and a nice bottle of wine sitting on ice. His outfit is also simple, plain jeans and a soft grey jumper with a white t-shirt underneath. The sun is just barely making its way down the horizon and a coolness has settled over the city, so John lights the fireplace. It gives the flat a cozy feeling that it hasn’t had in a long while.

Mary knocks gently on the door when she arrives around 6:15. John is waiting patiently at the door already having heard her ascend the steps. He offers her his arm and leads her into the kitchen. She smiles at him and giggles something about chivalry.

“What a gentleman. Seems I’ve gotten myself a good one.”

John chuckles good-naturedly, but his stomach turns. He’s such a lying bastard. “Seems so,” he replies instead, gesturing to her seat. “Dinner will be a couple more minutes. Would you like a glass of wine?”

Her eyes follow his gesturing hand to the bottle on the counter. She grins widely and nods. John reaches for the bottle, allowing himself to lean on the countertop. His knee has eased off since the morning but he’s still unsteady at best. He grabs the glasses as Mary responds.

“I’d love some. Is that a Pinot Blanc?” John gives her a knowing smile, pouring his own glass a little heavy. “That’s my favorite! How’d you know?”

She’d mentioned it a few weeks ago, casual conversation with the other nurses, but John had heard. It was something his character would remember, something a good man would make note of. He couldn’t begin to tell you Sherlock’s preferred drink or even Greg’s outside of cheap beer despite having had drinks with them both on multiple occasions. Sherlock always said he never observed. Seems the man truly was never wrong.

“Lucky guess it seems.” He tries to shake any remaining thoughts of his ex-flatmate out of his head. He’s here for Mary, for a living, breathing person.

He passes her glass over the table, letting his fingers run over hers flirtily. She blushes but holds eye contact. John knew better than to underestimate her; she worked at Bart’s for god’s sake. The timer of the stove breaks the moment, but he plays it off with a low laugh, shooting her a fax annoyed glance. She giggles over the rim of her wine glass, red lipstick barely grazing the glass. He fixes the plates quickly, humming softly to himself. This is going well. She hasn’t brought up the flat or the fact that he clearly can’t pay for such a big place of a general practitioner’s salary.

“It looks delicious!” 

“Thank you,” He says, faking a bashful smile. He’s such a goddamn liar. “I wasn’t sure what to make, so I hope you like stir fry.”

Mary seems to believe his shy act. She grins at him confidently and she eats her first bite. 

“Seems like you’re a really good guesser. This is one of my favorite meals.”

They eat, drink, and talk for hours. Mary is sweet and easy-going, and she doesn’t push him for information. When the food and wine are all gone, he leads her into the living room. He buries any memories of Sherlock deep down and sits down. She leans a little too much into his side for it to be accidental. Her cheeks are pink with the alcohol and she looks gorgeous, but John can’t help but feel terrible. He brought her here just to pretend to be someone he isn’t, someone he can never really be. He’s using her to forget Sherlock, to scrub him out of mind.

He leans into her touch anyway, wrapping his arm over her shoulder. She looks up at him and smiles, lipstick smudged from the wine glass. She wants to kiss him; John can tell from the way she keeps glancing down at his lips. He doesn’t really want to kiss her back. He honestly wants to go curl up in Sherlock’s bed and sleep this off, forget this whole stupid scheme. He shouldn’t be using her like this. She deserves so much better, John is selfish and a little drunk and can’t seem to keep a certain consulting detective out of his head. 

Her lips are soft against his. He lets his hand travel to her loose blonde curls as they move closer together. The warmth of the fire and the alcohol mix as he runs his hands through her hair. It comes loose from its bun and falls across her forehead and over her blue eyes.

John pulls back and smiles, reaching out to tuck the strands behind her ear. As his eyes meet hers, his stomach drops. Blue. Not quite the right shade but it sends his mind spiraling. He can almost feel the sticky blood on his hands and the blonde curls morph into black ones. 

He pulls his hand away, shutting his eyes. He tries to blink away the horrid images that keep flashing behind his tired eyes. God, he can’t do this anymore. Not on this couch. Not in this flat. Not right now.

He stands slowly, knee shaking. Mary shoots him a concerned look, and his heart aches. She really didn’t deserve this.

“I’m so sorry. I just remembered I have plans really early tomorrow and I may or may not be a little too drunk.” He plays it off with a small laugh and she joins in, voice high and breathy. Nothing like the deep chuckle Sherlock had. He was stupid to try and replace him, to try and pretend he doesn’t impact every step John takes.

“Well, I’ve had a lovely night. Maybe next time we can have dinner at my place.” She is looking up at him through her lashes. It’s a look John’s seen before. She wanted to sleep with him, preferably soon. Any other time he’d be happy to oblige. John “Three Continents” Watson wasn’t exactly one to turn down beautiful women, especially not one laid out on his couch.

“That sounds lovely, Mary,” he replies, not sure if he’s ever going to go through with it. “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry, John. You clearly need some sleep.”

She giggles and wobbles to her feet, unsteady in her red heels. John grabs her, one hand going to her hip. She smiles at him and he reaches up to wipe away some of her smudged lipstick. He tries not to think of the red stain on his thumb as blood. The picture of Sherlock’s slack body pops back up into his head as he yanks his hand away from her face.

He plays it off as another bout of nervousness and he leads her to the door, hiding his face. She stumbles down the steps easily, giving him a small wave when she reaches the bottom. He gives a clipped wave back before disappearing into the flat.

He stares down at the red lipstick stain on his thumb. He was so close to him. He was on the goddamn phone. He could’ve helped him, could’ve saved him. His hands start to shake rapidly as rage starts to rise in him. He called him a bloody monster.

He slams his fist into the wall, shoulder screaming at the sudden movement. Everything seems to hurt so much more without Sherlock. His knuckles start to bleed as he limps back to the bathroom, cane abandoned in the kitchen. 

The violin case almost trips him on his way back. God has such a sick sense of humor. He kicks it to the side so angry he could cry. He finally makes it to the bathroom, leaning onto the sink with his whole body weight. He feels sick and angry and so fucking tired. The person in the mirror looks like hell. He’s got eye bags the size of mountains and his cheeks have started to sink in from lack of sleep. He looks the way he feels, like a twisted shell of a man. Losing Sherlock was like losing a huge part of himself. The rage subsides and he’s left hollow. He feels like someone has scraped his insides out with a rusty spoon and replaces his brain with cotton balls.

For a moment, with tears blurring his eyes, he can almost see Sherlock behind him, lanky form towering over him, reminding him of what he’s lost. He slams his already bleeding fist into the glass. He can’t stand his reflection, the reminder of his failures, those beautiful blue eyes looking at him with disappointment. He should’ve known Sherlock would be a malevolent ghost, should’ve known he’d not let him rest.

He stumbles to the bedroom, ignoring the sharp pain from his hand and knee. He’s pretty sure there’s some glass lodged in his skin, but he doesn’t care. He falls into Sherlock’s room and drags himself to the bed.

This won’t be the first night he’s slept surrounded by blood and in pain, but this isn’t Afghanistan. This is home and that hurts so much more.

Sherlock hates Almaty. He’s been dead for about a month and he’s made almost zero progress. The web in Almaty is disorganized but large. It takes him far longer than he thought it would to finally rid the city of Moriarty’s disgusting grip.

He gets shot at, nearly stabbed, and, in the worst turn of events, gets an impromptu haircut from a loose piece of tin roofing. He hates it, but he’s glad it’s over. He gets to move on to the next hell hole city and slowly burn out more and more of Moriarty's web. 

He hasn’t had much contact with home, always busy with something. He needs to contact Mycroft before moving further east into China. The hostel he’s in has a blue payphone outside and he’s tempted to use it now despite it still being light out, but he decides to wait till nightfall. He is not exactly in the best shape to be seen on the streets, hair jaggedly cut and coat stained with blood. He sits in his room and plans his next move. Getting into China will be the easy part; getting rid of Moriarty’s web, however, will be a challenge. Almaty only took so long because of how disorganized it was, but he’s sure China will prove to be the opposite problem. The black market is large there and any one of Moriarty’s men can be around any corner. It’s a dangerous place, but Sherlock Holmes has never run from danger.

His Chinese is near perfect and he already has a fake passport under the name ‘George Nickels’. The border cross will appear legal before he disappears into the underworld. Mycroft’s Chinese web seems to specialize in back-alley surgery and drug trafficking. Drug traffickers will probably pose the biggest threat but black market surgeons have proven to be vicious when it comes to defending business. They have one common thread that Sherlock can track, money. Humans are always so greedy; it’s nearly laughable how simple it is to track money flow and stolen goods in the black market.

The sunsets in Almaty right around lunchtime in London. He knows for a fact that Mycroft will either be out for some dumb political lunch or in the Diogenes club trying not to stress eat too many slices of cake. 

It’s chilly out but dark enough to hide the red stains in the fabric of his coat, so Sherlock heads towards the payphone. He dials Mycroft's number easily, having almost every important phone number stored near the front of his Mind Palace for easy access. He lets it ring twice before hanging up. He shouldn’t have to wait long for Mycroft to ring him back, but he still taps his foot impatiently, shivering under his massive coat. He snatches the phone off the hook the second it rings.

“Mycroft?”

He can hear his brother sigh on the other line. “The one and only. What do you need?”

He scoffs, listening for background noise for clues on Mycroft’s whereabouts. “Nothing. Just trying to tell you that I’m moving on.”

“Are you sure you’ve completely demolished it in Almaty? You seemed to be taking quite a long time, brother mine.”

He can hear someone in the background, but Mycroft is calling him that stupid name which means it’s either someone who doesn't know they’re siblings or someone who knows Sherlock is alive. How interesting.

“I’ve got it under control. I’m heading further east tomorrow. Don’t worry I have everything I need to make it over the border.”

Mycroft talks to someone in the background, voice soft, almost sweet. Sherlock’s eyes widen. It seems his brother has found himself a goldfish. “If you’re sure, brother, I believe you.” He pauses and Sherlock feels nervousness shoot through him. What is his brother hiding? 

“The detective inspector knows.”

That’s all he says but it makes his stomach sink. How did Lestrade find out? What went wrong? Then it clicks, almost lightning fast in his brain. The hushed voice during that first call, the sweetness in his voice now, and the avoidance of a name. Lestrade is his brother’s goldfish. Sherlock wants to be angrier than he is, but he can’t find it in him. Lestrade isn’t in any danger if he’s by Mycroft’s side and he hasn’t seen Mycroft be with another person since before he left for college. His brother deserves a good man, and Lestrade could do worse (has done worse if Sherlock puts his ex into the equation).

“You’ll keep him safe? Mouth shut?”

Mycroft lets out a sigh of relief into the receiver. “Of course, brother mine. He, uh.” There’s some shuffling and hushed voice before he continues. “He’d like to speak with you.”

Of course, he does. Lestrade was always a good friend to him; it isn’t shocking that the man wants to confirm he’s actually okay. “That fine, Mycroft. Put him on. Just make it quick.”

“Hey, ‘Lock. How’ve you been?”

His voice is oddly comforting, reminding Sherlock how much he missed home. “I’m fine, Graham. How’s London without me?”

Lestrade laughs an honest and deep chuckle. It makes Sherlock smile, warmth filling him despite the chilly air. “Boring. A lot quieter. John’s taking it really hard, won’t really talk to us anymore. Just, uh, come home soon. We miss your crazy ass.”

The thought of John isolating himself makes all the warmth drain from his body. His blogger all alone is enough to ruin any good mood that was beginning to bloom. He needs to get this done, needs to move faster. “I’ll try, Greg. I’ll try.”

The phone switches hands again and Sherlock knows he’s about to say goodbye. It may be another month or so before he’ll get to hear from home again. He tries to memorize the exact sound of his brother’s voice (not that he’ll ever tell Myc that). “I guess this is where we part, huh, brother dear.”

“Yes, it seems that way. Goodbye, Mycroft,” he pauses. “Please take care of John.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before hanging up. He has to pack and get a good night’s rest before moving on. He’s not so sure he’ll be able to do the latter with John on his mind.

China is worse than Kazakhstan. Once over the border, things went smoothly, too smoothly. He makes it through 3 weeks with minimal effort and injury. The drug dealers are easy to manipulate and cutting off black market medical supplies proves to be deceptively easy. He is just about to take out one last target, a high-level drug lord who’d practically sold his soul to Moriarty, when everything goes wrong. 

He gets spotted. Sloppy work on his part coupled with a slick roof caused him to slip, successfully ruining the element of surprise and cracking his shoulder on the concrete. He takes the guy down, capable of shooting one-handed and damn good at it. With the threat eliminated and the Chinese web successfully dealt with he needs to move on as quickly as possible. Gunshots mean police and police mean far more attention than Sherlock needs. He has to stay under the radar as much as possible if he’s going to make it out of this alive and take Moriarty down once and for all. 

His shoulder is severely dislocated, popping as it lays limply out of the socket. He can feel it begin to swell and the ligaments around the joint start to throb. It’s painful but nothing he can’t handle. He needs to get his hands on some pain meds and someone to pop his shoulder back in. He may be a reckless man, but he knows that resetting his own shoulder will probably just end with him causing permanent damage. He cannot be slowed down now, not by an injury of his own making, so finding a doctor is high up on his list of priorities. He sighs; maybe he should have waited before sabotaging almost every black market doctor in a 20-mile radius.

He makes it back to his camp with little interference. He’s set up in a small abandoned building outside of Hefei in the Anhui province. The city is quite large and Sherlock knows if he peaks into the right dark allies, he’ll find someone willing to help him for the right price. He’s lucky he’s robbed a few of his marks or he’d have no choice but leverage his shoulder back into the socket himself.

When he does finally find someone who seems to know what they’re doing, they offer him some medication, pop his shoulder back in, and practically rob him of all the cash he has. He assumes that most of what they’re asking for is for the white pills he’s been handed, so he just pays the stupidly high price. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the pills are something a little stronger than panadol. His shoulder is screaming, his head has begun to ache, and he honestly cannot care less about what the pills really are, but he makes an attempt to identify them anyway. With the light of a nearby streetlamp, he gives the small white pills a quick glance over. They’re clearly a narcotic pain reliever and, if Sherlock’s knowledge can be trusted (and it can be trusted), most resemble Oxycodone. John never let him have anything stronger than panadol, knowing that narcotics could trigger a relapse despite Sherlock’s insistence that he’d only ever truly done coke. It wasn’t really the truth; he had done other drugs, but he only ever came back to coke.

He tosses the pills into his bag for safekeeping. He doesn’t need them now, probably never will, and he’d like to return to John a sober man. He’ll keep them just in case he gets a major injury later down the line. They may also come in handy when he’s trying to weasel his way into drug circles. It’d be a shame to let his money go to waste either way.

He grabs his burner phone from the rotting desk by the wall. With China done and dusted, he needs to update Mycroft on his location and tell him the next move. He doesn’t really need to call his brother but he knows it makes the other Holmes feel better. He’d hate to have Mycroft die of stress without him there to laugh at him over it.

Ring Ring.

“Mycroft Holmes speaking.”

“I’m heading to Afghanistan tomorrow.”

3 more months go by in the blink of an eye. He rolls his ankle in Afghanistan, gets shot in his bad shoulder in Libya, and stabbed twice in Morocco. He’s broken his ribs more times than he can count and his left wrist won’t stop clicking. In short, he’s not doing great, but he’s alive which is more than he can say for Moriarty’s men. The webs are starting to burn out, but he knows he can’t celebrate yet. He’s still got a lot of work to do.

He’s currently in San Fernando, Venezuela. Sex trafficking is a major business in South America and it seems Moriarty had played a huge role in its success.

The heat is awful and only serves to remind how much he misses rainy London. The people tend to keep to themselves which means getting information has been a struggle. Outsiders aren’t trusted here and Sherlock could not be more of an outsider. He does have one lead, however, a junkie with a passion for little girls. Men like that tend to run their mouths when given the chance, and Sherlock intends to give him the chance to spill.

“Hey, Friar, what’s goin’ on?”

Franklyn Friar, Sherlock’s newest cover, shares Manuel’s lust for adolescent girls and craving for heroin. It gives him an opening, a bit of rapport, that can get him into the underworld of San Fernando. He just has to play his cards right.

“Nothing much, Manny. Got my hands on some percs if you’re interested.”

He watches with thinly veiled contempt as the man grins a toothless smile. His breath smells rotten and his eyes are jaundiced. He’s disgusting, but Sherlock forces the bile back down his throat. He has to get in.

“You already know it, man. How much?” He’s already reaching in his pocket for a wad of bills. Sherlock had, on more than one occasion, been tempted to lift it off him. The guy was basically asking to be robbed.

“Free if you get me something better.” The man looks suspicious but interested. Sherlock’s got him on the hook.

“Now what would that be?”

“A few hours with that pretty little snow bunny you wouldn’t shut up about last week.”

Manuel smiles again, eyes twinkling with nauseating eagerness. “Sounds like a deal, chamo. Meet me at the old shirt factory at sundown and we’ll trade.”

Sherlock shoots him a grin, walking away. He’s got a plan to make.

The old shirt factory looks like any other run-down building but Sherlock knows looks can be deceiving. Manuel is sitting outside on the steps, shaking his leg impatiently. Sherlock tosses him a small baggie of the pills he got in Anhui. The man doesn’t even greet him before tossing back a few pills, leaning back against the stone steps.

“Go on in, head down the steps to the right, and tell Luis I sent you. He’ll take you to the girls.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond before going in. He’d heard of Luis before, mostly in hushed whispers. The man seemed to inspire fear in drug runners and users alike. It’s not much of a surprise that he’d be at the bottom of this. Moriarty always made himself available to already dangerous men. Luis fit the bill perfectly.

The steps echo with his steps as he preps his gun. He doesn’t want this to end in a shootout but there is only so much ground he can cover with a blade. The soda bottle on the end will serve as a decent suppressor for the first shot but after that, he’ll have to be careful. Calling attention to himself will only end in blood.

There’s a man standing around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, leaning smugly against the wall. Sherlock can hear whimpering on the other side of the door alongside the sound of boisterous men. There must be some kind of party happening behind the door. Sherlock will have to be more careful than he originally planned. The more men there are, the more girls there’s bound to be, and the more innocent people who can end up collateral damage if he isn’t cautious. He may need to change his plan.

“Luis?”

“Who’s asking?”

This man clearly isn’t Luis. He’s too low level. His shoes are cheap and his hair sloppy. The man whose very name can send shivers down druggies spines isn’t going to wear mismatched socks and guard the door to the party.

“Friar. Manuel sent me.”

The man smiles, pushing off the wall. He extends his hand in Sherlock’s direction but Sherlock doesn’t shake it. They aren’t here to be friends.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Friar.” He pulls his hand back, stuffing it into one of his pockets. “Manuel says you carry the good product.”

“I do.” He keeps the response short. The last thing he needs is a territorial drug dealer getting testy.

“There’s an entry fee for a palace like this. A pretty high one if you know what I mean.”

Sherlock scoffs but tosses him another baggie, this time one of crushed up Vicodin. He’d stolen off a druggie back in Chile and decided to keep for moments like this. “Here.”

The man grins and pushes open the door, revealing a poorly lit room that reeks of alcohol and vomit. There are three men sitting in ratty old chairs in the center of the room and a couple of guys towards the back corner. There are several closed doors that Sherlock can only assume hide bedrooms. Two of the men in the middle have terrified looking teenage girls on their laps but the third has an older girl tucked against his side. He’s better dressed than the others and they’re deferring to him even in the informal setting. He must be Luis.

The girl in Luis’s lap catches Sherlock's attention. She isn’t much older than the others, clearly just out of her teenage years, but she doesn’t look afraid. She’s leaning against him calmly, eyes locked with Sherlock. She’s angry and it’s obvious from her body language but the men don’t seem to notice. She’s going to kill him, the intention so clear on her face, so Sherlock grins at her. He decides then to change the plan, to focus on saving the girls instead of killing the men. She will play a very important role in this new plan even if she doesn’t know it yet.

He comes back to the factory over the next few weeks, chatting with the men, tugging the girls down onto his lap but never,  _ never _ , doing anything more than that. It’s easy to convince the others that he does do more than that, especially since a night doesn’t pass without them all getting incredibly high off of Sherlock’s supply. The older girl’s rage becomes more and more obvious as the days pass; she knows Sherlock hasn’t touched the girls, knows he’s hiding something, but she keeps quiet. She’s waiting for him to make the first move, a game of cat and mouse.

Tonight is the night he plans to end this. His pockets are filled with zip ties and his gun is fully loaded. He isn’t planning on firing a shot but he knows he may need to. Even high these men aren’t to be underestimated.

Vanessa, the older girl, is pacing by a door. Sherlock knows she wants to talk to him, has been trying to get his attention for days, but he needs to wait. He has to get them to let down their guard first. He passes out his usual bags of pills, making sure that every man in the room gets some. He needs them all to be higher than usual for this to work. Once he’s sure they’ve all gotten their doses, he moves towards Vanessa. She catches his eyes and slips into the waiting bedroom; he hopes she’s willing to help him.

The second he’s through the door there’s a knife to his neck. He isn’t afraid, not of her. She’s clearly angry but not at him. She senses his calmness and presses the knife closer, not breaking the skin but close.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice is heavily accented but her English is good. Most of the girls only speak Spanish, having been ripped from their homes before they could finish school. She’s clearly educated or maybe just perceptive. It would be hard to learn from her captors but it isn’t impossible.

“I’m here to help. I know you want to kill him, and I want that for you.”

She releases him, pushing herself away. She spins the knife between her fingers, pacing the floor aggressively. She spins on her foot, pointing the knife in his direction. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t, but you know I’ve never hurt one of you, and I don’t plan to. I just need to get all the girls into one room so they won’t get caught in the crossfire. Once they’re safe, you can lead him off and slit his throat. I’ll handle the rest.”

“They’ll notice if all the girls disappear. It won’t work.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I’ve laced the pills with sleeping powder. It isn’t enough to knock them out but it is enough to knock them off their rhythm. They won’t notice a thing.”

She nods, going back to pacing. She seems worried, but Sherlock knows she’ll help him. She hates these men with everything in her. Sherlock can’t blame her, but he can give her this. He can let her get her vengeance.

“Okay. I’ll get the girls.”

He leaves the room first, walking back to chairs in the center quietly. The men cheer and launch into mindless stories about all the terrible things they’ve done to the girls. It makes Sherlock’s stomach turn to listen to. They seem so proud of the pain they’ve caused, so happy that they’ve ruined these girls’ childhoods. Sherlock cannot wait to give them the reckoning they deserve.

He sees Vanessa lead all the girls away, herding them into the furthest room from the door. He gives her a wink when she’s done, signaling that he’s ready to move if she is. She smiles back, all teeth. She’s happy and Sherlock is happy for her. Luis follows her mindlessly, clueless to the fate that awaits him behind closed doors.

It takes 5 minutes for the plan to go wrong.

Only 5 minutes.

Luis busts out of the room, gasping as blood pours from a shallow wound in his throat. He’s not dead but he’s close. The other men jump unsteadily to their feet, ready to kill Vanessa for daring to defend herself. They pull their weapons right as Sherlock pulls his own. Vanessa slams the door closed, hiding as bullets start to spray.

Sherlock nails two of the six men in the room before they notice he’s not trying to help them. He ducks behind a chair and tries to cover himself as four high men fire wildly at him and the door to Vanessa’s room.

He takes a bullet to the shoulder when he peaks around to aim. The bullet tears through his flesh and ends up in the wall behind him. It doesn’t hurt yet, not with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He knows it will later, but first, he has to survive this. He returns fire one-handed, barely looking at his targets.

The guard and Manuel burst through the door and Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to take them down. Once he’s dispatched them, he turns to take out the final lackey. He watches wide-eyed as Vanessa slips behind the other man and slits his throat. She clearly learned her lesson with Luis because she presses deep into his throat, slicing down to the bone. The man drops like a sack of stones and Vanessa stands victoriously behind him, eyes wide with manic energy. She’s won. She is free now and she knows it.

She rushes to his side when she spots the blood, mumbling in Spanish. He recognizes her words distantly. She is praying. Sherlock’s not sure if anyone had ever prayed for him before. It almost feels nice. Almost.

He’s starting to feel the hole in his shoulder, the same shoulder he’d dislocated months back. It feels like his whole right side is on fire, blood is starting to pool around his feet.

“Vanessa… I’m going to give you a phone number, okay? I need you to call it,” he pauses, gasping for breath. “Hang up on the third ring and then wait. When they call back, ask for the woman. Tell them Lock sent you. She’ll help you. She’ll keep you free.”

Vanessa is shaking, coming down from the high of killing her captors. She’s staring at him unmoving, nearly catatonic.

“Vanessa! Promise you’ll call her.”

“Si...Si, I’ll call her. But what about you? What about the other girls?”

Sherlock slumps further into the floor. He’s losing blood fast. He needs to get out of here before the police show up, before he bleeds out on the filthy floor. “The other girls are young. The police will get them back home or to better homes. I’ll be fine.”

She starts putting pressure on his wound, still shaking. It hurts but he knows she’s just helping. He’s starting to lose himself in the pain, but he can’t pass out, not here. He passes her the phone number on a slip of paper before struggling to his feet; she slips an arm around him and helps him up the steps.

He can hear the sirens as he stumbles outside. Vanessa is standing on the stoop, looking at the sunrise for the first time in a very long time. Sherlock gives her the best smile he can muster before disappearing into the shadows. She’ll be okay. Irene will make sure of it.

Once he’s back at his hotel room, he falls to the floor. He grabs the medical kit he keeps and rummages through it. He doesn’t have any surgical thread but he does have fishing line. His hand wobbles as he threads his needle, having already stuffed the exit wound with cotton to slow the bleeding. The entry wound will be easy, a small wound made by a small-caliber gun. The exit wound is another story. He soaks the wound with cheap vodka from the minibar to sterilize it before shoving the needle through. He chokes back screams, tears spilling down his face. Usually, stitches don’t bother him but his shoulder has been the brunt of so many injuries and he’s never experienced pain like this before. He wishes John was here to help.

“You really should be more careful.”

His heart drops. He’s somehow triggered Mind Palace Molly. She’s standing by his bed, wringing her hands worriedly. He glares at her as he continues. If she refuses to be of any help, he’ll have to ignore her.

She babbles on about infection and permanent damage as he finishes up the first set of stitches. The exit wound is next. His dizziness is getting worse. He has to do this fast but also well. God, he wishes John was here.

“She’s right, brother mine. You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mess this time.”

Goddammit. Mycroft has joined Molly by the bed, staring at him condescendingly. Smug bastard. Sherlock pulls the cotton out of the wound and starts to sew. Blood leaks down his back, soaking into the hotel carpet. He really hopes he doesn’t have neighbors, unable to keep completely quiet.

Once the stitches are in he expects his two visitors to disappear but they don’t. Molly keeps talking to him, voice shaky and nervous. He knows she’s only there to protect him; he put her there, but he hates it anyway. He doesn’t need her mother henning right now. Mycroft, on the other hand, is flipping through a newspaper on the desk, clearly bored. 

Sherlock sighs and leans his good shoulder against the wall. He grabs some bandages and tries to wrap his wound correctly. It’s not his best work but it gets the job done. He rests for a while, just sitting on the floor of his room. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he thinks he’ll be okay. He has to be okay.

It takes a few hours but Mind Palace Molly and Mycroft do eventually fade away. He struggles to his feet and flops onto the, now empty, bed. He’s so tired, but he needs to call Mycroft, the real Mycroft. He hasn’t been able to speak to him since he was in Spain. His flight to South America had to be completely under the radar which meant he couldn’t take the chance of calling Mycroft. Chile and Brazil had been so hectic that he just didn’t have the chance to call his older brother. He figured that now while bleeding painfully onto his sheets, would be as good of a time as any to make contact.

He sits up and reaches for the phone, hand ghosting past the bottle of oxy he has by his bedside. He still isn’t sure he wants to risk taking them. Ibuprofen isn’t known for taking care of gunshot wounds, but he’d rather be in a little pain than high out of his mind. He needs to focus on getting better, finishing the mission, and getting home. John can fret over his injuries then. His doctor always took such good care of him. John wouldn’t want him to lose himself now, not after his sacrifice. He dials the number and waits.

“Yes?”

“Hello, brother.”

He can hear Mycroft shuffling on the other end, apologizing to whatever politicians he’s with. “Where are you? Are you alright?”

Always so concerned. He used to hate it, but now it fills his chest with warmth. Real Mycroft is often so much better than Mind Palace Mycroft. “Venezuela but I’m moving into Mexico in a week or so. I’ve been shot but I’m alright. It’s been handled.”

Mycroft curses under his breath and Sherlock giggles. Only he could annoy the British government so much.

“If you’re sure, brother mine.”

“I am, Mycroft. How’s everything in London?”

“The city hasn’t fallen without you. Mrs. Hudson had a small fall but is recovering well and Greg has regained most of his reputation at the Yard.”

He groans as he shifts. Mrs. Hudson is getting up there in years. He can’t help but worry about her. She’s family. “Is John taking care of her? He’s as much as her doctor as he is mine.”

There’s silence, a long pause that makes Sherlock’s stomach turn. “Mycroft?”

“John has cut everyone off. I doubt he even knows about her accident.”

“What do you mean he’s cut everyone off? Last time we talked you said he’d been talking to Geoffrey,” he spits angrily into the receiver, pissed that Mycroft would keep this from him.

“He’s since stopped talking to Greg. CCTV shows that he only leaves our flat to go to work and eat. He’s seemed to cut off everyone he used to know to move on. He had a woman over yesterday and from what I’ve seen they’ve been going out to lunch for the past few weeks.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, desperately trying to imagine what woman John has moved on with, what boring bimbo has tried to replace him.

“Brother, he’s moved on. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No,” he snarls, shoulder screaming as leaned further over the edge of the bed. “I wanted him to wait for me to come home, not bring someone else into  _ my _ flat.”

“Don’t be stupid, brother mine. You’re dead. He has every right to heal. I know you’re selfish but I also know you wouldn’t want him to hurt unnecessarily.”

He sighs, heart aching. He’s in too much pain to deal with this. “Just keep an eye on him and look into that woman. I’ll try to contact you soon.”

He hangs up quickly, eyes locked with the ugly carpet. Moved on. How the hell could John just move on? How could John just forget the life they had, leave their friends behind, their  _ family _ behind?

He glances at the pill bottle and snaps. John has moved on and so should he. John isn’t his doctor anymore, stopped being his doctor that day in January. He can take whatever he wants, do whatever he wants. He’s going to be out of commission for a few days anyway. He shouldn’t have to do it in pain. 

He twists off the cap with a pained grunt before throwing the pills back like a drink, swallowing them dry before washing them down with the vodka he used earlier. He flops back down into the shitty mattress, staring at the ceiling. He lets pills kick in and tries not to think of John kissing someone in the flat they shared. It was so much easier to be okay when John kept it behind closed doors at his date’s house but in his home, their home, it just hurt. It hurts so fucking much.


	4. Death-of-Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Las Vegas is a world away from London and Sherlock can't help but feel the distance.
> 
> TW: vague suicidal ideation, drug/alcohol abuse, murder, mentions of prostitution, non-graphic sex with an unnamed third party, major injuries, general Vegas related sins

It only takes a month for Sherlock to finish his stay in South America. Notoriously corrupt governments and easily bribed police make the flow of information steady and accessible. He doesn’t bother firing a shot for the most of it except for Columbia, but even then he had simply played the role of sniper, nesting on a rooftop over 3,000 yards away. 

He follows a coyote across the Mexican border and into the states. He’s shaved off his hair again, dying the scraggly buzzcut a light brown. The US tends to have higher security than the countries he’s been in for the past few missions.

His first stop is Las Vegas. Moriarty had thrived within the nightlife and gambling of sin city. He gets a hotel room on the main strip, tossing a wad of cash that he stole from a trafficker at the desk attendant. Once in his room, he strips the sheets off the bed and moves the bedding into the rather large closet space. Sleeping out in the open isn’t something he’s capable of any more, too many nights on the run catching up to him.

Vegas lives up to its name. Sherlock spends most nights either drinking, gambling, or hunting down scum. Moriarty’s men here are brazen, flashing shark-like smiles and money under the neon lights.

Sherlock thought coke was easy to find in Mexico  — and it was so very easy to find — but Las Vegas is practically overflowing with it. Coke and ecstasy are more readily available than name brand painkillers so Sherlock nurses his wounds with coke and vodka. He’s littered with cuts from falls and blades and his shoulder’s attempts at scaring tend to rip open when he’s on the job. 

More of him hurts than doesn’t.

The club scene is a little more welcoming than the gambling one. Gamblers don’t tend to like being out played by a man with a terrible haircut and a dirty coat. In his defense, most of the time he doesn’t even need to cheat — head too blurred with coke to even try — he’s just better than them at cards.

After being thrown out of 4 casinos and 3 more shady establishments, he decides that clubs might be a simpler way into Vegas’s thriving underworld. The copious amounts of party drugs that come with this decision are just an added bonus.

“Hey, baby. Having a rough night?,” a stripper says, hands gliding over Sherlock’s boney shoulders. “Need a pick me up?”

He does but not the one she provides. It’s not that she isn’t beautiful, busty and blonde with cherry red lips, but she’s more John’s type than his. The last thing he needs is a reminder of John and the company he keeps. “I’m good, but that gentleman over there in the tacky red suit is just drunk enough not to notice if you snatch his wallet.”

She grins, revealing pearly white veneers. It makes his stomach turn. She clearly doesn’t need the money, probably a child of wealth rebelling against a more conservitive family. The red bottoms of her heels as she saunters away only prove his hypothesis.

He does another line off the table in front of him, eyes rolling back as his nose starts to burn. He prefers to do coke intravenously but he doesn’t trust the needles in this place enough to risk it, so he withstands the burn and lets the pain leave his body slowly. He feels a little too big for his skin, floaty and somewhere past calm. A coke dealer is eyeing him from the corner, flashing his shark grin as he smells blood in the water. One of Moriarty’s men, reeking of pride and smugness, is waving him over, and Sherlock, reeking of alcohol and old blood, just walks over.

The stripper he’d talked to earlier is sitting on the drunk man’s lap, hands drifting toward his pocket. Sherlock can’t find it in him to grin, knee clicking as he walks. She doesn’t need that money and that man has a little girl at home, waiting for daddy to get home from his business trip. The man’s hands drift up the hem of her dress and Sherlock scrunches his nose; he has a wife as well, a brunette with more stomach than chest, who definitely deserves more than her husband. Neither of them need that cash, and while Sherlock knows he doesn’t deserve it either, he decides right then to try and lift it off her later if he wasn’t too high to function.

The music is loud and the lights are low but Sherlock can still tell exactly what kind of man he’s dealing with. His shirt is expensive but not well styled, teeth a clean white but in an obviously chemical way, and he’s staring at Sherlock as if he was a meal to be eaten. 

Sherlock sighs under the loud beat. If anyone here is a predator, it’s him. He hasn’t lost a battle yet and even high he’s twice the fighter this man could ever be. He’s got a motivation far greater than greed. He’s got John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson waiting in London with bullets to their names, and he refuses to lose more than he already has, refuses to lose them more than he already has.

“You looking to buy?” Even that man’s voice is sleazy, muffled by the music but disgustingly audible.

He shoots him a side-eye glance, pretending to be uninterested. “Depends on what you’re selling.”

“Coke, percs, molly. Anything you need I’ve got it, sweetheart.”

Sherlock nearly vomits. He is no-one’s sweetheart — never has been, never will be. He looks up through his lashes coyly, mentally cataloging every detail of the man’s face. He needs to remember this for the report MI6 will eventually ask for, mind palace a little distant from the coke.

“Can I get a little taste of that coke?” He licks his lips and opens up his body language. His own actions make him nauseous but he endures.

The man offers him a small baggie, eyes twinkling under the neon lights. Sherlock takes it and dips his finger in, licking it off with a little more tongue than necessary. The man doesn’t even try to hide his interest, eyes scanning Sherl’s lithe body hungrily. Sherlock allows it, savoring the coke. It’s good stuff, not cut with anything immediately recognizable. He takes another dip, pretending to do it for the man’s enjoyment instead of his own.

“This is pretty good,” he whispers, leaning in close to be heard over the music. “How much?” 

“For a pretty thing like you? First taste is free.” The man leans in closer, gross breath huffing across Sherlock’s face. He suppresses a gag and grins.

“That’s no way to run a business. You do this for all the boys?”

The man’s lips ghost across Sherlock’s, far too close for comfort. He slips the baggie of coke into his back pocket and steals another from the man’s coat. Like taking candy from a baby or a wallet from a cheating piece of shit in a shiny red blazer.

“Only you, doll.” It’s a lie. Sherlock’s seen him play this game twice tonight and several times in the nights before. Still, he pretends to be flattered.

“I’ll see you around, uh… I never caught your name.”

He’s baiting him, and the idiot falls for it hook, line, and sinker. “Justin. Justin Cooper.”

“Well, Justin,” he purrs seductively, glad he decided to turn on his phone's recording feature before walking over. “Thank you. I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

As Sherlock walks away, he doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. Two baggies of coke, all the info he needs to give to the police, and one more little spider in Moriarty’s Vegas web taken care of. It’s been a damn good night.

He does all the coke off his hotelroom’s dresser and barely has enough brain power to regret it. He curls up in the closet, warm blankets wrapped around his scrawny body. He’s lost a lot of weight, not enough food on the run, and it makes it hard to regulate his body temperature so the tight space is the most comfortable place he’s slept in at least 4 months.

When he wakes up the next morning — two steps over hungover and six into withdrawal — , he realizes it’s the most he’s slept in at least 6 months.

He checks his newest phone. A couple of ignored messages from Mycroft and even one from Lestrade. He’d been avoiding making contact for one reason or another since he got shot. He calls him, not wanting his brother to send MI6 after him. He’s got enough issues being lowkey as it is; he doesn’t need to be dodging the British government as well.

“Brother mine?”

He groans, half because of the name and half because his entire body is screaming. “Yes, Mycroft. It’s me.”

“Where are you?” Straight to point. Typical Mycroft.

“I’m in the states, Las Vegas to be exact. I’ve got some leads on a drug ring that links back to Moriaty’s web in Venezuela.”

“Alright, brother,” he pauses and Sherlock can’t help but be annoyed. He doesn’t have all day. “John’s birthday is tomorrow. He’s going on a holiday with Mary. Would you like me to track his movements outside of London?”

“Ah, August already. You’ll be tracking him no matter what my answer is, so I guess that will be an acceptable course of action.”

“Of course, brother mine. Please do call before your next move. I’m getting quite tired of trying to track you on my own.”

Sherlock hangs up in response. He will probably not call again until he knows that Mycroft is about to send someone after him. Though, he supposes Mycroft might call again tomorrow for a little update on life back home, on John moving on. He’ll answer that, not for Mycroft’s sake but because he’s a selfish man. He would do anything to see John himself, but third-person professional analytics will have to do for now.

He pulls back on his coat and heads out the door. He needs to drop off the evidence at the police station and move on to the next club. He needs a new dealer and a new lead. Moriarty’s web can’t continue to stand and Sherlock can’t stand to be detoxing for any longer.

The day doesn’t go very well. He finds a new dealer, does two rails to tide himself over, and even gets a lead, but his luck ends around 6 P.M. The warehouse he thought was just for storing product happened to also store a couple of beaten down prostitutes and a very angry pimp who carried a hunting knife. It wasn’t what he was expecting — partially because he was too high to see the clues — and, in turn, ended with him having excelerate his plan a few steps.

The blade sliced through his left palm, severing meat and nerves easily. He used his right to deliver a well aimed punch to the jaw, but the pimp wasn’t high and moved faster than Sherlock could predict, taking the hit and slicing the blade over Sherlock’s exposed abodemen. It’s a drawn out and painful fight that usually wouldn’t take him more than a few minutes, but in the end, Sherlock wrestles the blade away. He had originally planned on tying the man up and calling the police, but he was tired, bloody, and really in need of his next fix, so he rips the knife across the man’s carotid artery and lets him fall to the floor. The poor girls had already made their hasty escape, leaving Sherlock with at least 300 bricks of coke and more prescription pills than he can count. He grabbed a brick, tucking into his coat pocket without a single care that it wasn’t exactly hidden. He hunted for some cardboard boxes and burnt the place to the ground, using some everclear he found against the wall to accelerate the flames.

The fire department takes 5 minutes to respond. Sherlock is long gone in 3.

He pushes some gauze against the cut in his palm, hoping it doesn’t require stitches. He can handle a lot of injuries but he needs his hands for the Work. His only saving grace is his ability to shoot ambidextrously. His left may be out of commission for a few days but he’s sure he can handle the rest of the mission with only his right. He isn’t exactly planning on anymore fist fights or firing any shots. The police in Vegas have done an alright job at handling the web with Sherlock’s clues. He doesn’t see the need to kill any witnesses to his work. It’s not like he’s recognizable anymore, coked up, 40 pounds lighter with honey brown hair. 

He moves on to the slice to his chest. It cuts cleanly across his ribs, blood leaks steadily from the wound. It needs stitches, badly. He can see the torn muscles flex as pain rockets through him. The adrenaline is wearing off and he can’t tell if the throbbing in his head is due to a punch or the withdrawal.

His stitch work is sloppy, tremors running through him constantly. He gives up on making it look nice and decides to aim for half-way functional. Bleeding out in a hotel room isn’t how he wants to go out so he makes a passable attempt at bandaging himself up. He takes a precautionary antibiotic, eats the 4 day old sandwich he left on the bedside table, and does a couple of lines of coke to take the edge off.

He’s exhausted and his shoulder is aching from the fight — not to mention how badly it hurts to use his abdominal muscle or move his left hand, so he crawls into the closest and lets himself fall asleep, bleeding through his bandages.

He wakes up around 3am, officially John’s birthday and it’s all he can do not to throw up from the pain. The odd sleeping position makes his joints cramp and he’d torn a few of his stitches by tossing around.

He crawls out of the closest, barely making it into the room before craving for coke hits him. He groans, cursing his brother for being right. He really is an addict first and a genius second. He puts on a pot of hotel coffee that he will most definitely be spiking and searches for his first aid kit. The stitches are an easy enough fix, Mind Palace Molly talking him through the whole thing from her place on the bare bed. Her presence doesn't bother as much as it had the first time; she’d come in handy when he’d broken a rib in Columbia 2 weeks ago and since then he’d accepted her role as his new doctor. Mind Palace John hasn’t made an appearance yet and Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s disappointed or relieved.

The more clean nightclubs have already shut down at this hour, but the shadier places that house spiders are just starting to come alive. Sherlock takes his irish coffee with a hint of stolen percocets and tries to ignore the massive amount of coke sitting on the plush carpet. He really needs to cut back if he wants to stop giving himself stitches.

Las Vegas is still very much alive at this hour, shouting and music blasting in the streets. It’s an easy task to blend in and disappear into the nightlife. Despite his ragged looks, no one gives him a second glance. The best thing about big cities such as this is that nobody really cares about anyone but themself. It’s a blessing for a man who looks like Sherlock, bloody and on the wrong side of thin. He can’t remember that last time he had a real meal; he never really ate on cases and coke tends to decrease his appetite, but he’s hurting and something in the building across the road smells delicious.

Fried chicken at 3 A.M. when your detoxing is simultaneously disgusting and the best thing in the world. The grease coats his fingers and he tries to get his bandages too messy. Across the room he can see 4 men in suits chatting aimlessly. He nearly chokes on his food when he finally puts a name to one of the faces. Michael Tanner, high level hitman with a habit of killing highbrow politicians in the city that never sleeps.

The biggest spider on the web.

He’d only even seen him in pictures, flashes of a shark through the water. MI6 had been keeping an eye on him for the sake of knowing which Americans bit the bullet. Sometimes his work came in handy but more often than not it screwed a deal and left Britain scrambling for the next signature.

Tanner looks over, colds eyes locking with Sherlock’s. A shiver runs through his body but he keeps eating, glaring back at the other man. He knows that Michael would probably beat him to the draw if he reached for his gun here, so he lets his eyes fall back to the table. He shouldn’t instigate here. No, he’ll wait for him to leave, follow him to whatever seedy place men like him occupy, and take him and his whole crew out.

Those four men in the diner are the same type of men who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger on John or Mrs. Hudson. If the word of Sherlock being alive got to him, Michael Tanner wouldn’t hesitate to fulfil Moriarty’s promise. Sherlock will not hesitate when it comes time to pull the trigger on him instead. This has always been a rescue mission, his only goal is to keep his family safe, and Michael Tanner will die like a dog in the streets if it means Sherlock can save the people he cares about most.

Sherlock nearly crushes his drink, anger flooding him.

He waits patiently for his prey to move. He holds his place for a tick before falling, stalking them through the crowd like a predator through tall grass. This is an ambush he can’t wait to act on.

They walk into a high class club a few minutes away, completely unaware of the man following them close behind. It takes 30 minutes for Michael Tanner to stop scanning the room for threats, 35 for Sherlock to leave his hiding place by the spiral stairs, 40 for Michael to spot Sherlock, and 42 for the first weapon to be drawn.

Sherlock fires first, gun heavy in his right hand. It nails Michael in the head, his blood hitting the wall before he could unholster his weapon. He feels a bullet graze his bum shoulder and keeps shooting. His brain is working a little slower than usual but he’s still the smartest man in the room, moving faster than his enemies can ever dream of. He takes Tanner’s three accomplices out and disappears out the back entrances, listening to the police sirens close in. They’ll never catch him. He ducks around corners, careening through alleyways in the dark of night.

Away from the neon lights and partying, the pain sets in. His ears are ringing and he’s ripped his stitches again. All he wants is a few lines of coke and for this to all end now. He misses London, and the Work, and cases, and experiments, and dead bodies that he didn’t cause.

He misses John and the way he’d talk Sherlock through the detox, make him tea and force him to eat. He misses his laugh and the way his smile made Sherlock’s head spin.

He sinks to his knees in the alleyway and tries to think of his next move — a tries to forget how good it felt to watch Michael Tanner drop to the floor.

His next move apparently involves doing so much coke he barely remembers his own name. And then popping a few pain pills because they’re just sitting there. And doing what’s left of his medical vodka on the roof of his hotel and laying down with a brick of coke for his only company.

He’s so confused it hurts. He’s a high functioning sociopath. He shouldn’t care about the blood on his hands, he shouldn’t flinch when a car backfires on the street below, and he definitely shouldn’t feel so goddamn sentimental. It feels like his mind has turned itself inside out. He barely knows who he is, so high and without a name. Sherlock Holmes is dead and he doesn’t know who that makes him,  _ what _ that makes him.

The sun hasn’t even started to rise and Sherlock is desperately trying to list all the things he knows for sure. He knows his eyes are blue. He knows he’s in Las Vegas.

He knows the sun will rise in a few hours.

He knows John Watson is alive.

He knows that he’ll need to move on to Georgia in a few days to escape the cops in hopes that the whispers he’s heard about Atlanta are true,

He knows he’s bleeding.

And, well, and he knows it’s John Watson’s birthday.

Sherlock knows it’s John's birthday the same way he knows the different types of cigarette ash. It’s etched into his brain, burnt into the walls of his Mind Palace. John is a house fire he’s never been able to put out. 

He knows Mycroft will call later — around 6 A.M. Vegas time — and give him an update on life back in London, on John’s holiday. He also knows that he will latch onto every sliver of information Mycroft gives. 

He knows he misses John now like he missed coke when he was sober. He knows the coke burns his nose the way John’s absence has lit his brain on fire.

“Happy birthday, John.” It’s no more than a whisper, floating up into the empty night sky, drowned out by the music playing from the street below. The concrete roof feels so much different from his bed back at 221b. Everything feels so different,

He declines Mycroft’s call as the sun begins to climb through the sky, balanced on the edge of the roof. It’s not the same as before. It never will be.

He does a quick lines off his knuckles. At least the coke hasn’t changed. 

A whole day flies by with Sherlock sitting on that rooftop, going through his brick like his lifes depends on it. The night falls over Las Vegas like a blanket while Sherlock thinks about his game plan for moving on. He’s not in the best state of mind, but he doesn’t really care. He’s going to get to Georgia high or not so it doesn’t really matter how he makes his plan. The US is nothing compared to South America; he’s getting far too good and limping over borders without raising suspicion. 

He lets himself fall back against the rooftop, too tired to sit up anymore, spreading out on the concrete. He stares up at the clouds, ignoring the sounds of the city around him. Music drifts through the air, a pop tune that hurts his ears. It’s a love song he thinks distantly. It feels like a stab to the sternum. Even at 5 A.M. Las Vegas doesn’t stop partying.

The night here is oppressive. the dark weighing down on him despite the light of the city that never sleeps. It feels like the kiss of a lover stained with whiskey; it feels like pressure on his chest. 

The day feels distant and empty like there’s too much space between Sherlock and the nearest human body. It feels lonely in a crowd. Sherlock, surrounded by a great big world, has never felt more alone. Day time in Las Vegas is a hollow shell compared to day time in London. Sherlock is a hollow man compared to who he used to be. 

He absentmindedly scratches his jagged nails over the concrete, sketching the invisible lines of John’s face. His hands feel like an afterthought, blood dotting the skin as pieces of his nail break off. He’s barely in his own head, nose bleeding a little from the constant abuse. 

The music gets louder and the sun gets brighter, and he can hear the joyous screams of excited people from the street below. They seem so happy and Sherlock isn’t sure what that’s like anymore. All he can feel is the burn in his head and the emptiness in his chest. He killed 4 men last night and another man a few days before that and countless others before that. His hands are stained bright red and all he can think is that he’d do it again, every day for the rest of his life if it meant the one’s he left back in London are okay. He’d burn the whole damn world to the ground to keep them safe. He’s so far away from the people mulling around restaurants below. He’s so far away from being a person.

He tries to piece it together, the lives of those on the street below, but he can’t. His mind is distant, blurred around the edges. It’s an idiotic task, attempting to define a room he has never been in, a room that sit vacant thousands of miles away. He stumbles to his feet, palms scraping against the rough ground below him. He wants to be in that room. He wants to forget this pain.

There is a man in the hotel stairwell, his eyes are a deep blue, so Sherlock decides that sleeping with him wouldn’t be too bad. Blue eyes flecked with green. Not quite John's eyes. He could drown in John's eyes. 

The man is wearing a sharp suit, a little ill fitting but clean. He’s a businessman in Vegas, obviously a partier but not too sleazy. He’s clean shaven but clearly not busy seeing as he’s lazily smoking in a stairwell. Sherlock knows he doesn’t look very nice in comparison, scratched up and on the wrong side of high, but he knows how to pull people in. He asks for a smoke and the man grins toothily at him, clearly not caring that Sherlock is the highest man in Vegas.

He starts fishing and the man bites on the hook like he’d never seen a lure before. Sherlock flaunts his cheek bones and shyly hides his slender body. His ribs stick out like those of a junkyard dog even when hidden by a loose shirt. The man doesn’t give the blood a second glance, barely asking if Sherlock was alright. Sherlock lied easily, high mind not coming close to a decent lie. If the man notices, he doesn’t seem to care. Sherlock doesn’t care either. 

They skip the pleasantries. Sherlock lies about his injuries, the man lies about his wife, and neither of them are stupid enough to pretend that it matters at all.

The man pulls Sherlock down a few flights of stairs and to his room. They don’t waste any time, ripping away clothes and moaning for the sake of making sound. Sherlock crashes into the other man like a crash test car, animalistic in his one track mind. It's a struggle in the heat of the sheets and it only feels good if he’s moving. He only feels good when he’s moving. His brain is screaming and he’s only slightly terrified that his high is wearing off. 

Strange hands fly over paper thin skin and Sherlock finds himself gasping into the humid heat of another mouth. It’s feral and wrong and it makes his head spin faster than ever before. This isn’t what he needed but he asked for it, lured and fished for what he wanted without a second though, The man sinks his teeth into Sherlock’s collarbone and Sherlock falls away, brain screaming alongside his shoulder. His eyes slip shut and he plunges into the deep end of a pool that is thousands of miles from the grimy hotel room. 

It's blue flecked with green. 

It’s a fall and it’s suicide. 

He almost falls asleep at the bottom of that pool and only realizes when they’re over halfway through that the stitches in his side have ripped further, an old dull pain that only hurts when he’s moving. He only hurts when he’s moving. 

When they’re done, Sherlock leaves, not giving the man another glance. He slips in the man’s remaining cigarettes into his pocket, barely registering that fact his shirt’s now on inside out. He thinks about home as he lights one up. How could he explain this? How could he come back from this? His coke-addled brain swings wildly at an answer but misses every time. He feels like someone scraped out his insides with a rusty spoon and left him checking for the scars. He’s not sure how much longer he can go on like this, warping and changing until he can no longer fit into the idea of Sherlock Holmes. He can never wear that deerstalker again, never lay his hands on a Belstaff coat, never set foot in the home John and him once shared. He isn’t Sherlock Holmes anymore,and he doesn’t want to think about what that means for The Hat Detective and His Loyal Blogger.

He walks outside and stands on the curb, letting the world spin around him as he smokes. It smells like wine and trash and blood. His stomach turns and he thinks about the dealer that stands on the corner a few blocks away. He brings his fingers up to the bite on his neck, pulling them away tinted with blood. He can feel the blood start to soak through the side of his shirt where his stitches have torn through his half-healed flesh. His mouth feels so dry and his throat aches like he swallowed glass. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispers to the cars speeding by. He's not really sure what he’s apologizing for, but he knows that it does nothing for the guilt building in his chest.


	5. Mountain-Laurel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he's getting better. Maybe he's getting worse. John doesn't really know, and he's not sure he really cares.
> 
> TW: major warning for suicidal John. It's very passive and he will not attempt to end his life but he does think vaguely about it. general warning for dissociation and John being a bit not good.

The months simultaneously fly by quickly and drip by slowly. It’s a strange dichotomy of the grains of sand slipping by at a snail’s pace and the world spinning rapidly on its axis. London is a city of life, of constant movement. John can feel the heartbeat of the city, the thrum of the streets. He can also feel himself slowing down.

He’s been losing track on time recently. He forgets the date more often than he remembers it and it’s slowly becoming a problem. He forgets his days off, showing up at work with a cup of coffee that he has to pretend he brought for Mary. He forgets his therapy appointments, getting a short call from his newest therapist asking if he’d like to reschedule  —he never does. It should be worrying. It should be terrifying how little he knows about his own day-to-day life, but he can’t find it in him to care. 

His sadness has dissolved into a weird sort of emptiness. He’d felt hollow before, scrapped empty from the power of his feelings. It’s different now, though. It doesn’t leave him searching scars or wondering when Sherlock’s ghost gutted him. It is nothing.

John is nothing.

He thinks he might be getting better in some ways. He feels less fake around Mary, less guilty about not answering his phone, and he doesn’t even cry anymore. He does still think about Sherlock, occasionally even says his name out loud. He murmurs it into the darkness of his bedroom, into the soft light of the kitchen, and into the tense air of his therapist’s office. It doesn’t make him ache like it used to and his therapist said that means he’s moving on. She said his grief was strong and valid but that he shouldn’t cling to it, that he shouldn’t guilt himself into hanging on to a ghost. He’s not sure he’s ready to really let go, to admit that his life with Sherlock is over.

After appointments, the emptiness is worse. It is reminiscent of the scraped raw feeling he’s used to. Sessions leave him vulnerable and a little more than off balance. Shelia, his therapist, says this is also normal. John doesn’t feel normal. Well, John isn’t sure what normal feels like  — he’s not sure he’s ever felt it.

He knows his childhood wasn’t normal. He knows his time at war wasn’t normal. He knows his life with Sherlock i̶s̶n̶'̶t̶ wasn’t normal.

He’s pretty sure he isn’t normal either.

Days slip by, his birthday slips by, his feelings slip by, and John just wants the world to slow down for a moment. He wants to stop feeling like he’s running in a race he didn’t sign up for. He wants to really feel something again.

The cuts on his knuckles have healed but he hasn’t replaced the mirror. He doesn’t think about it but a voice that suspiciously sounds like Shelia says it’s because he doesn’t want to see himself. He ignores her. The bloody sheets have been replaced, thrown in the trash along with any dignity he thought he still had. He went on a small holiday. He went on dates with Mary. He did his job and went to therapy. Life carried John through the world with little care for what he wanted, for what he felt.

Nothing out of the ordinary happens until December, 11 and a half months since Sherlock uprooted everything John lived for.

Mrs. Hudson asks him if he’ll still be celebrating Christmas in the flat. Christmas… John hadn’t even known it was December, brain still processing August  — still processing January. He hasn’t talked to Hudson in a long while, half-way avoiding her and half-way avoiding all unnecessary human interaction. He stutters out something about not being sure, tongue tripping over itself. She gives him a look that makes his stomach turn, the first real emotion he’s felt in what has apparently been 3 months. She looks disappointed and a little worried, but most of all, she looks angry. She stares through John’s soul with a glare that makes him want to run and hide.

He does run and hide, disappearing quickly up the stairs despite his limp. His knee doesn’t hurt as often anymore or maybe he’s just gotten used to it, but he still wobbles when he moves too fast. He rushes into  S̶h̶e̶r̶l̶o̶c̶k̶'̶s̶ his bedroom and sits on the bed in silence, trying to sort through what just happened.

Will he celebrate Christmas at 221b? Will he celebrate at all?

Mary will probably want to do something. If Mary wants to then they will. If she wants to be in 221b, John will do his best to decorate. He’ll probably forget it until the last minute but a tree is something he should be capable of, maybe even a few lights.

Christmas…

_ Christmas. _

Sherlock loved Christmas, insisted they decorate the whole apartment floor to ceiling. He played Christmas songs near constantly, hummed them under his breath whilst working. He loved guessing gifts and though he’d never admit it, loved giving them.

His first Christmas without Sherlock is about to happen and there is nothing he can do to change it.

The emptiness deepens, cracking open his chest and prying his ribs apart. It doesn’t hurt like he expects it to. He keeps waiting for the pain and the sadness and the debilitating anger to come back but it doesn’t. He feels like a vacant hotel room, fully furnished but lacking. He’s full of so many things but none of them living, none of them interesting.

None of them Sherlock.

His phone buzzes in the pocket. He barely notices it, bouncing leg covering most of the feeling. He knows it’s Mary. Who else would it be? He’s pushed everyone else away. Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Mike have all stopped trying to contact him.

He’s been a shit friend. Worst of all, he’s been a shit friend  _ on purpose _ . 

He answers the phone without even checking the caller ID.

“Yeah?” His voice is a little hoarse and his mind is absent.

“Dr. Watson, it’s Mycroft Holmes…” 

He doesn’t get the chance to finish before John hangs up, slamming his phone down against the mattress immediately. Mycroft Holmes just called him. Sherlock’s brother, the man who pays half the rent at 221b, the actual British government, just called him. And John hung up. He lets his head fall into his hands, sigh escaping him. He hopes he didn’t make the other man too mad. He’d really hate to lose this place because he pissed off Mycroft.

The phone doesn’t ring again and John takes it as a win.

The win feels more like a loss when Mycroft shows up on his doorstep 4 hours later.

It feels like an even bigger loss when all the rage of Sherlock’s funeral comes flooding back into the empty hole his chest has become.

He accepts his failure the second his fist connects with Mycroft’s jaw.

“Well,” His posh voice is stilted from the hit but still entirely too smug. “Good to see you as well, Dr. Watson.”

John leans against the door, giving Mycroft the space to come in. His anger hasn’t settled, still taking up space in his formerly hollow body. It doesn’t feel great but he prefers it to the emptiness so he clings to it. He can do this. He can be angry.

They walk to the couch, John limping silently behind the taller man. He still hasn’t forgotten the funeral. The way Mycroft had refused to speak to anyone attending and then disappeared before the first eulogy could be given. His own brother’s funeral and he couldn’t even stick around to say something kind about him. John could understand staying silent or hiding or even saying something terrible  — Sherlock wasn’t known for his kindness or social skills. There were always a lot of bad things to say. But Mycroft just left, slipped away to whatever rat-hole he crawled out of, looking bored by the whole affair.

Such a fucking Holmes.

John plops down on the couch, trying to focus his anger on Mycroft and not the room around him. The Holmes brother angered him like no other and despite being dead Sherlock could still make him feel too much. He’d still rather feel like this than how he felt before.

Mycroft stays standing, glancing around idly. He seems just as bored here as he did at the funeral. John wants to hit him again, smash his scarred knuckles over those idiotic cheekbones. Sherlock and Mycroft never really looked alike before, but in the soft light of 221B through the lens of anger John allows the lines between them to blur. He can’t hate Sherlock, can’t take out his aggression on a dead man, but he can hate Mycroft. It’s not the same, but it is enough.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

His voice wavers more than he wants to admit, hands still clenched at his side.

“I want to talk, Doctor. You’ve become quite distant. It is strange behavior for a man who only pays half the rent in central London. No flatmate, no friends, and you clearly haven’t gotten rid of Sherlock’s things.” His hand gestures towards the violin case leaning against the wall. 

How is he supposed to reply to that? How could he get rid of Sherlock’s things? How could he get another flatmate? Why the fuck does Mycroft care? If he wanted John gone, he’d just stop paying the rent. The game he’s playing doesn’t make any sense. Despite this fact, John still wants to win, wants to answer the questions so perfectly that Mycroft takes his posh ass out the door and never returns. John isn’t really known for his eloquence.

“What’s your point?”

“My point is: Gregory is worried about you and I pay your rent. Do us both a favor and answer your phone occasionally.” Mycroft’s voice is exasperated but fond, a tone that John has never heard from him before. 

Gregory? As in Lestrade? As in Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade? Well shit.

“Are you threatening me so that Greg will leave you alone?” He can’t keep the confusion out of his voice. 

Mycroft sighs, finally turning to glance at John. “No, I’m telling you to text the man back so he will talk to me about things that aren’t you.”

John doesn’t answer, confusion settling alongside the anger. Mycroft came all the way to 221b just to get Lestrade off his back… It feels wrong like there’s some big plan John isn’t seeing. It doesn’t matter, not really. His therapist has been trying to get him to talk to Greg again for weeks — months perhaps. He doesn’t really remember. He’ll text the man, probably won’t meet up with him, and try to pretend he’s moving on. Fake it till you make it, he muses to himself. 

Or until your dead best friend’s brother is happy enough to continue paying your rent. That’s good too.

Mycroft's jaw is sore from the punch he’s recently received. He’s no stranger to pain but he honestly wasn’t expecting such violence from the ex-soldier. The man had seemingly moved on well in a dissociative kind of way, pushing away all the people that reminded him of Sherlock while still surrounding himself with his brother’s things. Ordinary people are always so strange, especially in their grief.

John is now calmly sitting on the couch, clearly uncomfortable but no longer irate. Silence has fallen between them. John is staring at the carpet, taking in Mycroft’s message. He’d known that Greg hadn’t mentioned their romantic relationship, but he had assumed that John knew that they were at least friendly. It seems he’d guessed incorrectly, the game of probability not taking into account how unobservant John Watson truly is.

He uses the awkward silence as a chance to glance around the room. It’s obvious that John hasn’t been in here much, dust has gathered around all the knickknacks showing how little they’ve been moved. It’s a little sad how unlived in the flat seems. It is truly too large for one person to occupy but John clearly isn’t looking for a roommate. It’d be more annoying if Mycroft didn’t know SHerlock would most likely be returning home. It’d be a shame for his brother to work so hard only to have his home taken by some stranger in his absence — Sherlock would never force John out of 221b. Such a sentimental little thing when it came to his blogger.

Despite the layers of dust and grime, a drawer on the desk has signs of frequent use. It doesn’t make sense. John is so obviously uncomfortable in the room; whatever is in that drawer must be worth his discomfort. Curiosity takes over, mind latching on the chance for new information.

Mycroft moves slowly towards the desk, unfamiliar with whatever could be in the drawer. “I understand you’re angry with me but i need you to understand something.” 

He uses the conversation to mask his movement, not wanting John to notice what he’s doing. John doesn’t look up but his body language switches back from confused to angry. 

“And what, pray tell, would that be, Mycroft? you disappeared from your own brother’s funeral. your parents didn’t even show up.” The ex-soldier still isn’t looking at him, eyes locked with the floor like he can’t stand to even look at the room. His body is tense, hands clenched into fists, and shoulders squared uncomfortably.

Mycroft finally makes it to the desk, not yet looking at the drawer but close. “I love my little brother. He meant the world to me, but that doesn’t change how I feel about sentiment. crying at his casket wouldn’t change things so why do it. I can't answer for my parents but I know they loved Sherlock. He was their favorite.” 

John scoffs, a deep noise that Mycroft supposes would be intimidating if he was a lesser man. He turns further away from Mycroft who takes the chance to open the drawer, curiosity overflowing. His stomach drops.

This is not what he’d been expecting, probability be damned.

He knew John often carried an illegal firearm. The cabbie incident from his and Sherlock’s first case revealed not only that John carried a gun but that he knew how to use it. Mycroft doesn’t really care about the legality of it; John is a good man who saved his brother and refused his bribe, but the weight of the information settled uncomfortably in his chest.

John had been visiting his gun. 

Perhaps because it reminded him of what used to be. Maybe because he missed the violence. Most worryingly —and most probable— John was looking at his way out, his ticket to join Sherlock. How very worrying. 

It simply wouldn’t do. Sherlock would be devastated, Greg as well, and if Mycroft was completely honest —which he often never is—, he’d also grown quite attached to the doctor. Well, grown to tolerate; the other man did just punch him.

Mycroft moves away, silently shutting the drawer. “He loved you, John. He may not have shown it very well, but that would be my doing. I taught him sentiment was a weakness but it wasn’t, not for him. His care for you made him a better man and I cannot begin to thank you.” He lets honesty slip into his tone. He needs this to work, to sway John away from whatever ideation he’s found in these past few months. 

John does look at him then, eyes wet with unshed tears. Mycroft isn’t good with emotion but he knows he must look quite genuine because John can’t hold his gaze long.

“Get the hell out of my flat.” 

Mycroft does and once he’s out the door, he texts Greg. He hopes this will work out. He’d hate to have to bring his brother home early because his mission is two steps from failing despite his efforts. Sherlock tasked him with keeping John safe, and Mycroft, ever so pragmatic, has decided to pass the task on to someone far better equipped to handle such sentiment.

**_Mycroft Holmes to Gregory: Please look after Doctor Watson. He is spiralling at a rate that I am not sure I can handle. Permission to use force if necessary._ **

John’s hands are shaking when he hears the door shut, teeth gritting painfully in his mouth. How dare he come into John’s home and spew that shit? 

_ He loved you. _

The emptiness is returning, swallowing him whole. He wants to hide in it, run from the shitty knowledge that Sherlock did, in fact, love him. The very man he called a machine, the man he watched paint the pavement in blood, his best fucking friend  _ loved him _ .

They never got to say it. He never got to play those words off as a platonic sign of friendship, never got to play the role of doting best friend.

He misses pretending. He misses bringing home women for Sherlock to run off. He misses being deduced. He misses poison tea and fingers in the toaster. He misses pretending to be angry, pretending to hate, pretending not to be head-over-fucking-heels for a fucking genius who’s married to his work.

He and Sherlock always toed the line of friendship, so close to tipping over into something more. They were so close, John was so close to just letting it go. Crossing that line was always something he planned on doing. He teased and pushed at boundaries, waiting for Sherlock to let him in despite him not being quite ready to say it out loud.

Sherlock didn’t do sentiment. John didn’t do gay. 

Years in the army pushed those feelings away. Years of living with his asshole of a father pushed those feelings away. He could do women, could easily and freely love them. He could do James Sholto, no strings and full of life and only a little shame. He could do Mary, avoiding eye contact because her eyes are just too damn blue. He could do random women and wait for Sherlock to shove them away. He could and he did. Because he needed time, proof, or maybe —just maybe— he needed a push. A push that never came because Sherlock Holmes is dead and John is definitely not gay, never gay.

_ He loved you. _

As a friend.

_ His care for you made him a better man. _

Sherlock Holmes was a great man, not a good one. John could never change that.

_ I love my little brother. _

A beat passes, John’s teeth unclench and his eyes become wide. A simple mistake. An easy slip of the tongue that means nothing except it was Mycroft Bloody Holmes. Mycroft doesn’t make little mistakes, never lets information go without good reason.

He switched tenses.

Love… Not loved.

The coat twisted under his body so strangely, so staggeringly odd. Mycroft left early. Mycroft said love.

No.

He stands, moving haphazardly to the bedroom, hollowness consuming him. He can’t do this anymore. Can’t cling to some stupid hope that this will change. He has to move on. He snarls into the empty air and wishes he could just scream, just let it all go. There’s no noise left in him, no fight remaining. John Watson’s chest is a black hole, tearing any emotions away from his grasp and tugging near painfully at his heart.

He gets in bed and wishes the anger had lingered. He wishes he could punch the wall or scream or hate, but he can’t anymore. He has therapy tomorrow. She’ll tell him he’s doing good. She’ll tell him that celebrating Christmas is a good idea. She’ll tell him punching Mycroft was wrong. And he’ll sit there and wish he was anywhere else, eyes blank and mind empty.

He isn’t getting better.

His mind wanders to the drawer of his desk aimlessly, barely curious.

He thinks he’s getting worse.


	6. Poinsettia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock freezes and dreams of a warm Christmas at home. John basks in a false warmth before being thrown back out into the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts, major violence, descriptions of torture, vomiting, non-con drug use, mentions of alcoholism, John's terrible coping mechanisms.
> 
> Sherlock really gets put through the wringer this chapter and John is also a bit not good. Please read at your own risk and be careful.
> 
> Also Happy Holidays!

Sherlock thinks it may be snowing outside. He isn’t really sure; there are no windows where is so he can’t actually tell, but he can feel the cold seeping in. He’s surrounded by four thick concrete walls. They don’t protect him from the chill.

He’s somewhere in Canada. Ontario maybe? He can’t remember, mind hazy. He’d been captured a few days ago — weeks maybe — by a group of Moriarty’s men. He’d been on the wrong side of high when they ambushed him on the street. Canada doesn’t have a reputation for violence, so it makes for an incredibly good hiding spot for the more dangerous spiders in the web. He could’ve fought back, might have even beaten them off, but he was so tired and in need of a forced detox so he just let them take him.

The first few days locked up had been awful. The withdrawal hurt so much more than the beatings. His whole body burned and his head ached like he’d been hit with a hammer. It was good distraction from whatever torture his captors picked each day.

It was hard to think about the drill bit going into his leg when all he could think about was coke and how much he missed being high.

He knew he would have to escape soon. He couldn’t go on for much longer. He needed to burn this web and move back into Europe. The men around him got loose lipped pretty early on, thinking he couldn’t speak French. They had revealed some of Moriarty’s larger operations in France, Greece, and Lithuania. Idiots.

Someone comes into the room, heavy boots clunking along the floor. Sherlock can’t see him from his position in the center of the room. His hands are suspended over his head by chains and his feet barely graze the floor. His left shoulder is dislocated again, ripped uselessly from the socket, and his wrists feel like they’ve been broken repeatedly. He sways a little, shifting to try and regain his balance. It’s becoming harder and harder to get his feet underneath him. He really needs to escape already.

The man walks in front of him. He’s wearing a neat white shirt with dark green slacks. If it wasn’t for the heavy scarring on his knuckles or the fact Sherlock can remember receiving beatings from him, he’d look innocent.

He grins, all shark teeth and pride.

Sherlock braces for a hit.

It doesn’t come. The man, Sherlock knows his name is Jamison but ‘the man’ is easier to recall, reveals a needle. It’s filled with a thick, pale yellow liquid. Sherlock’s too tired to properly identify the drug immediately. He hasn’t eaten in days and water is a luxury he only receives every three days. His mind palace isn’t as organized as it should be, information slipping from his groggy grasp.

He feels the needle prick his outstretched arm and tenses. The burn is a grounding sort of pain, but they’ve never drugged him before. He hates to admit — even just to himself — how terrifying it is.

The effects aren’t as severe as he’d been expecting. His pain eases a little, his head fogs more, and he feels a bit dizzy. He assumes it’s some sort of narcotic pain killer but struggles to pinpoint exactly which one. Not heroin… Not morphine… None of the drugs his brain supplies fits quite right.

He starts to sweat, stomach turning. His shoulder and wrists don’t hurt much anymore but he does feel sick. Bile rises in his throat and before he can stop himself he vomits, puke spilling down his shirt and onto the concrete floor. It isn’t much, a thin clear liquid. His mouth tastes awful and his throat burns. He starts to heave again but nothing comes up. His chest aches a little at the constant retching with no results. 

He’d honestly rather just be in pain.

Blood rushes to his face and the cold air suddenly feels unbearably hot. Fatigue catches up to him causing him to waver on his feet. The man just stares at him, eyes filled with disgust and self-satisfaction. 

Sherlock doesn’t remember passing out, but he does remember that look. He cannot wait to wipe it off that idiot's face.

When he wakes up, he finds himself laying splayed out on the ground. He’s still cuffed, hands chained to the floor instead of the ceiling. His head spins rapidly and his stomach aches sharply. His skin feels too tight and he can’t stop sweating even as the chill of the room settles in his bones.

A boot connects with his ribs.

“Misérable homme.”

It’s spit with so much venom that Sherlock recoils. He can hear his ribs crack before he can feel it. There isn’t much for him to do but lay there and take the next kicks.

_ Wretched man _ …

Pain shoots through his body, head bouncing off the concrete with the force of the stomp.

Blood pours from his nose, puddling underneath his head and soaking his poorly bleached hair. It feels familiar — almost nostalgic — to be laying in a pool of blood on the concrete. It was cold then too. January in London always is.

Another hard blow to the stomach.

This isn’t London. The blood pooling around him is real, is actually his. Molly isn’t waiting for his arrival inside. Mycroft isn’t placed strategically out of view in a black town car. John isn’t off to the side calling for his friend. John isn’t here.

If he dies now, he’ll let them down. His friends won’t be safe. Lestrade won’t be safe. Mrs. Hudson won’t be safe. John Watson will be in danger.

Moriarty’s laugh echoes in his head, bouncing off the walls of his Mind Palace hauntingly. He tries to move, tries to fight back, but another blow to his head causes black circles to bloom in his vision.

Molly’s gentle voice calls from the corner of the room, “You’re about to pass out, Sherlock. It’s going to be okay. Just let go.”

He can’t let go. Not yet. Now now.

Another kick to the stomach. Blood spills past his lips. He lets his eyes slip shut, just for a moment. A break from the bright lights and endless sea of red and grey.

He wakes up with his hands once again strung up above his head. There’s another needle sticking out of his arm; he can taste blood in his mouth. He twists in the air, wrists screaming at the weight being put on them. He needs to do something, needs to get something done.

He can’t really remember what he’s supposed to be doing. Escaping sounds right but his brain feels scraped raw. It’s like someone hollowed out his skull with a rusty spoon. It hurts to think. It hurts to move. It just hurts.

“Stop struggling, petit chien. You’re only hurting yourself.”

_ Little dog _ . 

Snarling and barking. Pulling against his leash. A struggling mutt. A stupid stray.

He freezes, hanging limp as he looks up at Jamison with empty blue eyes. The man laughs and Sherlock has to suppress a gag. His voice is too loud and his teeth too blindingly white under the fluorescent bulbs of the basement. He’s talking about how much Sherlock’s been through, how it will all end if he just tells them why he was snooping around.

His brain may be working at less than half capacity but he knows better than to believe the words. If he lies, he will be beaten. If he tells the truth, he will die. If he tells the truth, the people he’s been trying to protect will die as well.

Jamison cocks his head to the side when Sherlock doesn’t speak. He walks forward, placing a calloused hand on Sherlock’s cheek. He strokes his thumb along his cheek bone and smiles. A shark who smells blood in the water.

“Come on, chiot. Be a good boy and speak.”

Sherlock knows he shouldn’t do it, knows it'll cause more harm than good. But Jamison's hand is so close and his head hurts so much and all he wants is for the blood in his mouth to belong to someone else.

He sinks his teeth into the fleshy part of Jamison’s hand and  _ rips _ .

Blood drips from his lips and he lets out a breathy growl. Sherlock Holmes is not a good man, and he is most definitely not anyone’s good dog.

The punch to the face is worth it.

The belt to the back isn’t.

Each lash makes him flinch forward, tugging at his already tender wrists. The dose of whatever they’ve been giving him starts to take effect around the 16 hit because his mind starts to fog up.

The pain becomes a distant sting like a day old papercut or a pulled muscle. It fades until he barely notices it. He barely notices when it stops. He barely notices the new needle in his arm.

He doesn’t notice himself drifting off or the sound of Jamison leaving.

“Oh, brother mine.”

His eyes snap open, looking around so fast it makes him dizzy. Mycroft is standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest. Distantly, Sherlock recognizes that his brother isn’t actually there. He knows that Mycroft is back in London eating expensive cake and drinking even more expensive whiskey. This knowledge doesn’t stop the tears from running down his face.

“They’ve really done a number on you, haven’t they?” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, his Mind Palace’s way of providing comfort. “You need to think of a plan, alright? Use that magnificent brain of yours.”

His throat is ripped raw and his lips cracked open, but he still tries to respond. It’s barely more . than a whisper, a mumbled call to a memory. “I’m not as smart as you.”

“No, brother mine, you aren’t, but your doctor is waiting for you back home. You don’t want to let him down, do you?”

No. He doesn’t.

Sherlock let’s Mycroft fade into the background and tries to think of a plan. He has to get out of here. He has to keep John safe.

Someone comes in to let him down, tossing him gracelessly to the floor. He isn’t strong enough to run quite yet, but it gives him an idea on when he could make his move. He’s chained to the floor for a few hours. He lets himself for a while, knowing his high will fade naturally in a little while.

He gets around 4 hours of sleep before he’s forced back up. It takes them significantly longer to suspend him than it doesn for them to let him down.

The plan adjusts accordingly.

Jamison comes back in with another dose of whatever they've been giving him. Sherlock still can’t really tell what it is. He’s had about everything under the sun — Columbia was a very lively place — but this drug seems to evade him at every turn.

His brain fogs again as they force some water down his throat, letting it pour uselessly over his chin and down his vomit-stained shirt. 

Three days have passed since his last drink. He now has an official timer on his stay here. Three more days and he’s leaving.

Jamison whips him again, still with his belt. The buckle digs harshly into the already torn skin on his back. He’s never been whipped before this. He thinks it would hurt more if he wasn’t so incredibly high.

His captors seem to realize this as well because the next day they give him a smaller dose.

Blood streaks down his back and pools in the floor. The buckle of Jamison’s belt digs out chunks of his flesh, ripping at his shoulders mercilessly. Every hit causes screams to echo through the basement. Sherlock’s throat is raw and bloody, drips of red coloring his pale lips. 

Mind Palace Molly shows up early that morning, staring wide-eyed and terrified as Sherlock suffers. She mumbles soft praise and begs him to keep going, to stay strong for her and everyone back in London. She doesn’t leave when Jamison disappears, or when Sherlock is left a bloody pulp in the floor, or when Sherlock starts to drift off.

His brain seems to think he needs the comfort.

She pets his hair as he falls asleep, humming under her non-existent breath. He tries not to find it endearing, tries to make her leave, but she stays and he sleeps better because of it.

He wakes up to the sound of screaming. It booms in the silence of the freezing basement. Mind Palace Molly is there at his side in an instant, soothing him. Terror fills him. It’s so damn loud and everything hurts. He covers his ears, Molly’s hands covering his own.

“Sherlock, please, please be quiet. They’re going to hear you.”

Be quiet?

Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet.

He’s screaming.

His voice is ripping its way out of his throat. It’s filling the grey room. It’s making his ears hurt. It’s scaring Molly. It’s scaring him.

He slaps his hand over his mouth, busting his own lip. He’d been screaming. He realizes belatedly he’d not just been screaming. It wasn’t just an empty noise tearing its way out of him. No, he’d been screaming for help.

He’d been calling for John.

Jamison comes in right on time, quirking his brow at the sight laid out in front of him. A dirty, scrawny stray with a hand over his mouth. A wretched man sobbing into his own palms, laying in a pile of filth.

Sherlock accepts his next dose without a fight, almost offering up his arm.

He wants to be high. He knows he shouldn’t, knows that Mind Palace Molly is looking at him with those big, disappointed eyes. He does anyway. He’ll worry about it more tomorrow when he’s finally out of this hell-hole — when he’s finally wiped that smug look off Jamison’s face once and for all.

He takes his beating in relative silence.

God he hopes this works.

He wakes up early the next day, laying perfectly still like a predator in waiting. Jamison will walk through the door in a few minutes. He’ll have to sit the needle down in order to lift Sherlock up to reattach him to the ceiling hook. Once he’s got his hands on Sherlock, supporting his entire body weight, Sherlock will strike.

Like clockwork Jamison’s boots hit the concrete floor and he moves towards Sherlock's emaciated body. He places the loaded needles on a nearby table and leans down to lift Sherlock’s tiny frame.

He gets two steps towards the hook when Sherlock sinks his teeth into his throat, ripping savagely at Jamison’s carotid artery. Blood sprays when Sherlock is finally dropped onto the cold floor. Jamison desperately tries to stop the bleeding but Sherlock knows it won’t work. He will die down here in a puddle of his own blood.

Sherlock tries to ignore how happy that thought makes him.

He grabs the needles and pulls the coat off of Jamison’s convulsing body. He’s so tired of being cold.

Another man tries to stop him, barely getting his gun out of the holster when Sherlock shoves the needle in neck. Sherlock takes the weapon with ease. His wrist aches sharply but he keeps moving, trying to think of a good way to reset his shoulder on the run.

He shoots two guards and bashes another's head in with the butt of the pistol. It’s messy work but he’s making progress. He doesn’t remember the layout of the building so most of his movements are guesswork. He follows the sounds of voices and takes out as many people as possible on the way.

He refuses to leave a single survivor. Not here. Not now.

When he finally finds an exit, he’s shot 7 men and killed 4 more in increasingly gruesome ways. He is covered in blood and a little bit of brain matter, but he doesn’t care. He’s alive, injured greatly, but alive.

He works his way to the main road and only feels a little bit bad when he holds someone at gunpoint in order to steal their car.

Their accent reveals that he is, in fact, somewhere in Ontario, Canada.

He pulls into the first hotel parking lot he can find. He pays for a shitty room with the money he also stole from the poor bastard he stole the car from. The woman behind the main desk doesn’t even look up to see if he matches his I.D. She blows a bubble with her gum and dryly tells him to have a nice stay.

Sherlock has never been so grateful for bad customer service.

He’s halfway to the elevator when she speaks again.

“Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock would have thrown up if he’d had anything in his stomach.

He props his shoulder against the hotel drywall and forces it back into its socket. He sinks his teeth into his lip to stifle a scream, tasting his blood mix with Jamison’s. His next move is to rinse out his mouth in the sink.

After cleaning up the best he can, he calls for room service. He buys so much food that they deliver it in shifts, dropping it off outside his room door every 15 minutes for about an hour.

He eats most of it, but saves some for later. He’s going to be stuck here for a few days in order to heal and he honestly doesn’t want to deal with hotel staff more than absolutely necessary.

After cleaning up, eating, drinking, and trying not to think about how much time has passed, he calls Mycroft. His brother answers on the first ring.

“Where the hell are you?!”

Sherlock wants to cry.

“Ontario… Some rat infested hotel off the highway.”

“Are you in need of extraction?” Mycroft speak for ‘Are you almost dead?’

“No. I’ve got some injuries but nothing I cannot handle on my own.” Sherlock tries so desperately to keep his voice even but it waver slightly at the end. He feels so weak, so broken down. All he wants is to go to sleep and never wake back up but that’s not an option. Not until everyone he loves is safe.

“Brother, are you alright?” He sounds so much like Mind Palace Mycroft that Sherlock does nearly cry, a whimper pushing past his lips without his permission. 

“I… I don’t know, Myc.”

Mycroft sighs, a light huff of air of the receiver. Sherlock begins to shake. He feels like such a disappointment. He should be able to handle this. He should be able to handle anything. He’s fine. 

He has to be fine.

He thinks about the blood in his mouth, about the blood soaking his hands, about the poor man on the side of the road in middle-of-nowhere-Canada.

“Mycroft, I’m not as smart as you.”

“Brother dearest, you are a far better man than I could ever be. The end is nearly in sight. You can’t give up yet.”

He knows that. He really does, but his head hurts so bad and his shoulder will never be the same and all he wants to do is see John again. He wants to laugh with him in alleyways and go on cases and bask in the warmth of the fireplace. He wants for their stares and touches to linger again. He wants to go home and do what he should have done that first day at Angelo’s and say ‘I’m married to my work but I could always make an exception for a man like you.’

“I know… How’s everything there? Christmas going well?”

It’s a selfish thing to ask but Mycroft has never denied Sherlock anything in his entire life.

“Detective Lestrade is fine, Mrs. Hudson’s hip has healed up perfectly, and John is having Christmas dinner with his girlfriend. He isn’t doing very well but I’ve got Gregory looking in on him more often now.”

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. “What do you mean not doing well?”

“He hasn’t quite moved on, brother mine. Your loss has impacted him far more than we previously estimated.”

“But he is okay, right? I haven’t been doing all this for nothing?”

“He will be fine, brother,” Mycroft says exasperatedly, just a tinge of worry coating his words. “I will make sure of it.”

Sherlock thinks about it for a moment, holding the phone dumbly to his ear. He’s glad that John hasn’t forgotten him, but he cannot stand the idea of John not being okay. It has been nearly a year since he fell. He expected John to mourn but it’s clear that he isn’t really processing his death at all.

He will just have to work to be home faster.

“Thank you, Mycroft. I’ll be heading to France next. I’ll try and contact you once I’m there.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before hanging up.

He spends the rest of the night trying to keep his dinner done and dreaming of Christmas dinner with John.

It’s snowing outside when John wakes up. The cold seeps into his bones like an old friend and makes his knee ache. He tries his best to ignore it and go back to sleep, but he can’t. The cold is a reminder of what day it is. 

His first Chritsmas without Sherlock.

He rolls over and gets to his feet, struggling to get his knee to withstand his weight. The cold always made it worse which didn’t really make much sense. His therapist says that psychosomatic injuries often mimic physical injuries even when it seems odd. John doesn’t really care about the semantics. He just wishes it’d stop.

Mary is coming over for a little dinner later in the evening. He’d thought about inviting the others but it felt wrong to bring them back into the flat after pushing them away for so long. The only thing that held them together was Sherlock and he isn’t here to be the glue anymore.

He’s been talking to Greg more often, just a few texts here and there. It isn’t much but he tries. He wants to move on, to stop feeling so numb. Sheila says that reconnecting with old friends may help so he tries. He tries not to think about how fake it feels to message someone just because he wants to feel better. He tries not to think about how selfish that makes him.

He fails.

The flat is decorated for the holiday. He put up a small tree and hung up some lights. It’s not as festive as it was last year but he hopes it’s enough to make Mary happy. The last thing he wants is for her to see how life at 221b really is — how he really is.

He walks into the bathroom to get ready and ignore the empty place where the mirror once hung. He doesn’t need to see himself to know how tired he looks, how worn done he’s become.

There are few texts waiting for him on his phone. Mary had sent him a sweet good morning text which he answers immediately. She’s been so sweet recently, kissing him softly on the cheek every chance she got. She’d started bringing him coffee without being asked and always sent a good morning message.

She’s been the one constant in his new life without Sherlock.

He loves it. Loves her kind words and her little idiosyncrasies and the way treats him like his own person.

He tries not to resent her for it. He’s never been good with schedules, with boring. It’s not her fault that he craves a thrill, a little bit of bite.

Mary is kind and sweet and funny, but she can never be Sherlock. It is a fact that John is still struggling to accept. He’d chosen someone so different from the person he lost that now that he’s finally starting to heal, he’s losing interest.

He craves a thrill — something that only a deadman can provide. 

He thinks he understands why Sherlock became an addict now. He tries not to think about it too much, afraid of what it really means.

The other message is from Greg.

It’s a simple ‘Happy Christmas’ but it throws John for a loop. He isn’t sure how to respond, if he even wants to respond. He and Greg haven't been close for so long now. Their friendship feels like a distant memory like it happened ages ago instead of just a year.

Time feels so thin without Sherlock around to fill it. Everything blends together.

He shakes his head. Holidays after a loss are always hard. Sheila had coached him through this so many times in the last few sessions. He just has to keep moving; he can’t let himself be swallowed by memories of what used to be. He has to make new memories now, has to let himself live again.

He texts back a quick ‘Merry Christmas’ and spends the next few minutes trying to slow his heart rate. He has to get through this, has to let himself move on.

5 P.M. rolls around almost too fast. He’s got a small turkey in the oven, almost finished, and some mashed potatoes waiting on the counter. Mary said she’d bring a little bit of cranberry sauce and some dessert.

It’s not much of a Christmas dinner, but it is something.

He pulls out a bottle of Pinot Blanc and some wine glasses. The candlelight mixes with the warm glow from the fireplace and makes the flat feel more like a home. Twinkling Christmas lights and bright red poinsettias makes John’s heart swell. He can do this. He is going to do this.

Something is missing, though. He can’t quite put his finger on it. He’s sure he hadn’t forgotten anything but it still feels a little off. The wine glasses clink when he sits them down.

Aha!

The flat is too quiet. There should be music playing, something nice and festive.

He turns to grab his phone and turn on something to fill the silent air when he sees it. Sherlock’s violin case sat where it was all those months ago before the world became dim and his chest became hollow.

Sherlock loved to play Christmas songs. Silent Night had been John’s favorite to hear but he had loved them all. The way the melodies had filled the air, the way Sherlock danced around, the way his slender fingers skimmed the wood. The flat had felt so full then, so alive.

John sits his phone down and moves across the room. He hesitates before picking up the case; he hasn’t touched it since the fall. He hadn’t wanted to, but it’s time. He can’t live with this ghost anymore. He can’t keep playing dead in hopes that Sherlock might come home, that things might get better on their own.

He moves it to the bedroom — Sherlock’s old room. His current one — and sits it gently by the closet. He knows he’ll probably never be able to get rid of it completely but this is a start. This he can do.

Mary knocks on the front door at 5:30 and John feels ready.

He feels much ready when he opens the door.

Mary sweeps through the flat like she owns the place. She grins at the decorations and comments on how wonderful the food smells. She’s peppy, a little too peppy. John grins nonetheless and offers her a glass of wine.

She slaps him playfully on the shoulder and smiles so wide her bright red lipstick cracks a little. “You know me so well.”

He pours them both a glass and moves to finish setting the table. It feels a little empty compared to the last Christmas he spent here but it’s still good.

This. Is. Good.

John serves the turkey and potatoes; Mary lays out the cranberry sauce and some plum pudding. Their tiny Christmas dinner slowly starts to come together. 

“How have you been today, John? Talk to any friends about the Holidays?”

It catches him off guard. She’s been asking questions like that more recently now, clearly worried about John’s pitiful social life outside of her and work. It makes him a little angry. He knows she means well but it feels like judgement, like pity.

“I’ve been good. A lot better now that I’ve got a pretty girl here to share dinner with.” He gives her a sly wink and smirks at her blush. “Talked to Greg a little bit this morning before I started cooking.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t feel hungry anymore.

“You’re such a flirt. How’s Greg been? You two stopped talking for a while.”

She’s pushing and John can feel it like a pressure on his fragile chest. He doesn’t know why she’s doing this, but he answers anyway. He has to keep trying.

“He’s been alright. His divorce went through but I’m pretty sure he’s seeing someone else, so he shouldn’t be too lonely tonight.” His mind wanders back to Mycroft. He’s not sure if it’s true but it feels like it. Two men brought together through unlikely circumstances — it’s not a hard story to sell. He wonders briefly if Sherlock knew.

“That’s good. You know, if you wanted to, you could’ve invited him to our little dinner. It doesn’t just have to be us all the time.” Her voice is calm and level but her hand shakes a little as she raises her glass. John sees it. He sees a lot of things now, but he doesn’t know how to interpret it, how to truly observe.

“Yeah, I know I could’ve, but I wanted our first Christmas together to be something,” He pauses for a moment, looking her right in the eye. “Special. Something more than just a get together.”

She smiles at him but it’s so fake it makes his stomach turn. He almost vomits when it clicks. He isn’t the only one who’s spent the majority of this relationship wearing a mask. How didn’t he see the changes? When did he start to lose her too?

Her wine class clinks against the table. She knows she’s been caught; her smile drops.

“I know about Sherlock.”

It hangs in the air for what feels like forever. John freezes then gets angry then feels hurt and then he just feels numb. The game is up, but he’s still willing to play. He still wants to try and win.

“Okay… Do you want to explain what you mean by that?” His voice is monotone but not apathetic. It sounds like a stranger to his own ears.

“I mean I know you’ve been hiding stuff from me. I know you’re hurting and you won’t tell me how bad.”

He takes a deep breath. She means well. She means well. She means well. It’s a mantra that plays in his head. He needs to be calm, needs to be level headed. It’s easier to be angry than it is to face how you really feel. He can’t take the easy way out anymore. Not now.

“Talking about him won’t change anything. I’ve been moving on, Mary. Starting over.”

She looks angry for a moment as well like he’s lying to her instead of just telling the truth. “I thought you’d say something eventually. I thought if we got close enough, you’d talk to me about it.”

“Is that all you wanted? The Sherlock Holmes story?” He can’t keep the anger out of his voice but he tries not to yell. He doesn’t want to become that kind of man. The one who shouts at Christmas dinner.

“I wanted you to talk to me!” Mary doesn’t share his reservations. Her voice is sharp and it cuts through the air like a knife.

“About what?” He spits, venom spilling past his lips. “What could you have ever wanted to know that wasn’t plastered across the papers or talked about behind my back at Bart’s?”

“I’ve heard the stories, I’ve read the blog, but Jesus, John, no-one knows how you feel? All I know is he died, you fell apart, and now you live in the flat you two shared and act like you can’t stand the thought of being here.”

He drinks the rest of his wine in one gulp and slouches back in his chair. He never wanted it to come to this. “What are you saying, Mary?”

He knows what she’s saying. He knows it all too well.

“I’m saying that I thought I could help you heal. I thought that maybe if I talked to you enough that maybe the nice doctor everyone talked about behind his back would tell me something. That maybe you could heal and we could be something, but you, you,” She takes a deep breath and stands up. “You’re in love with a ghost and I don’t think anything I can do will change that.”

John doesn’t say anything. How could he? She isn’t wrong, but it still stings. He still has feelings for her, however selfish and warped they may be.

It still hurts to hear.

“I-I’m gonna go.” It falls on unhearing ears. “Merry Christmas, John. Please text somebody… Greg maybe? Just talk to someone.”

He waits for the front door to shut before he moves. He hears two steps on the stairs and then he lets himself get angry. He bares his teeth and smashes his wine glass against the cabinets. Glass scatters across the floor and John can’t find it in him to care.

He knocks the chair over when he stands up, knee hurting so much more than he remembered. He picks up the tiny box he’d left under the tree and throws it into the trash. It’s a dumb decision. That necklace cost him good money, too much damn money for a lie. 

A gross sob racks his body, pouring past unwilling lips. He’s so damn angry and so damn sad and so damn  _ empty _ .

He’d been trying. He tried so hard and here he is, standing in his empty flat crying his eyes out over nothing. Over a woman he couldn’t really care about, over a dumb necklace, over a terrible wine, over the ghost he can’t seem to get rid of.

He wishes there was music playing.

He wishes he’d never moved the violin.

John wobbles his way to the bedroom, too stubborn to find his cane. He flops into the bed and stares longingly at the violin case by his closet door.

He spends the night trying to keep himself from drinking the rest of the wine in the kitchen and dreaming about Silent Night.


	7. Desert-Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to move on without someone else to cling to. Sherlock struggles with the heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: major injury, blood, depression, vague mentions of suicide, self-harming behavior, and general Moriarty related criminal acts.

John spends most of January in the flat. He didn’t sleep very well after Christmas, constantly pulling all-nighters just to think. His therapist says he’s punishing himself; he thinks he’s just overwhelmed.

Mary had been his rock for a while. He’d clung to her in order to forget, to pretend. She’d been a fantasy, a life he couldn’t have. Now that she isn’t there to balance him anymore, he’s struggling to function.

He goes on leave from the hospital. It’s not voluntary. He had passed out between patients, falling into a brief and restless sleep.

It’s for the best. He needs a little time to get a hold of himself, to find a new rock.

His therapist says he’s being codependent, says he needs to learn to be a person on his own. She’s right in some ways. He knows that now more than ever. He’d clung to Sherlock like a lost puppy. He’d grasped at Mary’s coat tails in a failed rebound. 

He hasn’t been alone since he was a kid. Even then it had only been for a few years, the gap between his sister leaving and him turning 18. He can hardly remember it  — that’s not true. He remembers it far too well. He’d joined the army as soon as he could, desperate to escape his father and finally have  _ someone _ again. He’d never been good at being alone and it’s time he faces it. He’s a grown ass man; he doesn’t need anyone else to survive.

Except he texts Greg more now. Except Mycroft pays his rent. Except he tries to talk to Mike again.

Except he’s grasping for balance again.

He sighs softly. He really needs a hobby that isn’t being a sad sack.

Without work and Mary it’s hard to fill the time. He sleeps a lot now which he guesses is an improvement. He’d been running on empty for so long his body isn’t sure what to do with all the sleep. He feels a little foggy most of the time, but it’s better than the exhaustion. Well, sometimes they just feel the same.

Getting better kind of sucks.

He pours himself a cup of tea and tries to pretend he didn’t just wake up at 4 in the afternoon.

Getting better really sucks.

He misses the codependency. He misses being able to just pretend he was okay because he had a person to pretend for.

John Watson is a performer.

He performed for his father, pretending to be a good and obedient son. He performed in the military, pretending to not enjoy the adrenaline he felt when he was in the field. He performed for Sherlock, playing the grumpy but loyal blogger  — It was the closest he felt to being the real him, but the feeling died alongside his best friend. He performed for Mary. He performed for the ghost in his flat.

Now he’s performing for an empty auditorium, acting for his mirror. 

He snorts. A metaphorical mirror, clearly. Seeing as he still hasn’t replaced the mirror in the bathroom. He should probably do that.

He glances out the living room window at the rain pouring down outside. He can replace the mirror another day. Today he supposes he can just exist in the flat. He hasn’t done that in a while. He hasn’t done a lot of anything in a while.

The rain patters a soft rhythm on the window sill. It’s soothing and John wishes for a fleeting moment that Sherlock was here to play his violin. He suppresses the thought, clenching his teeth. His eyes lock with the window and he forces his jaw to relax. There isn’t anyone to perform for. He doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t miss Sherlock.

Memories of music flash behind his eyes and it hurts, but that’s the whole point isn’t it? 

Mourning hurts.

Old newspaper clippings and faded tunes and dried blood stains and the ghost of Sherlock Holmes weigh heavy on John’s soul. He’s allowed to miss things openly. This is allowed to hurt. 

A tear rolls down his cheek and he lets it. He doesn’t have to be angry, doesn’t have to play that role. He isn’t just an angry ex-military doctor. He isn’t just a grumpy blogger.

He’s a man who’s lost someone and because of it lost himself. He’s a man who can still find himself with some time. He still has his memories; he doesn’t have to forget everything him and Sherlock did. Sherlock is more than just a ghost to remind him of his past mistakes; Sherlock is someone who made John feel like himself.

Sherlock Holmes may be dead but the things he did live on.

He chuckles, a wet snort. Sherlock did so much stupid stuff. He was an idiot despite his genius. John had got a few peeks at the man behind the deerstalker. They’d shared a few laughs. They’d ate normal dinners and told bad jokes.

It had all been so good before the fall. John had thought things were going so good.

Maybe he wasn’t only the one hiding, covered by a mask and playing a role.

He wishes they’d gotten to really know each other. He wishes he’d dropped the mask for more than a few seconds at a time. He wishes he knew why Sherlock took the plunge.

The tears flow freely now, dripping down his cheeks. He wipes gently at them and sips his tea. The warmth of the cup soothes the ache in his chest. He’d never get the chance to tell Sherlock all the things he wishes he could.

“I’m John Watson and I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes.”

It’s a choked whisper. It’s the truth, the dirty and disgusting truth. He’s never said the words out loud before. He’s never let himself dream of it, but Sherlock Holmes is dead and he can have this now. 

There isn’t anyone in the stands listening to his pitiful song.

John lets himself sob openly, sitting his tea to the side. Today he’ll cry himself out, tomorrow he’ll buy a new mirror, and maybe  — just maybe — one day he’ll be able to look in it.

Maybe one day this won’t hurt so bad, but today it does and John just needs to get used to that.

He does buy a new mirror; he doesn’t hang it up yet. He isn’t quite ready to look at himself. He knows it won’t be a pretty sight. He’s been sleeping too much, sleeping too little, barely eating, and not taking care of himself. He’s sure he’s lost weight and knows that he’s in need of a good shower.

The nice lady at the store had looked at him with such concern, such pity. It’d stung a little then it had pissed him off and then he accepted it for what it is. He knows he looks bad.

He feels worse than he looks.

She had helped him pick out a new mirror and even offered to carry it out to his car for him. He didn’t accept. 1. Because he took a cab and 2. Because he’s a grown man and despite how bad he feels he’s still capable of carrying a cheap mirror.

He leaves the mirror on the floor in the living room, glass facing the wall. 

If he looks half as bad as he feels, he’s not ready to see himself. That lady’s pity was almost too much on its own. He‘s not sure he’d be able to handle feeling that much pity for himself.

He’s supposed to meet with Sheila tomorrow. Therapy has started to leave him drained and empty. The side effects of not pretending have started to take full effect and he’s really tired of just being a person. He’ll still go to his session though. 

Getting better. Moving on. Trying not to think about his best friend’s skull busted open on the concrete. Trying to think of the good memories and not become lost in the bad ones. 

Being his own person is really hard. He’s got no frame of reference, no starting point. His whole life has been built on the cornerstone of someone else’s expectations. Losing Sherlock has been like being soaked in ice water after a life of living in the sunlight.

Everything is cold and he’s constantly seeking warmth but he can’t just steal another person’s body heat anymore. He’s got to do the work, has to light his own damn fireplace and try not to get burned.

He doesn’t believe in an afterlife, but he hopes distantly that Sherlock is somewhere warm. Sherlock deserved to be warm.

Sherlock spends most of January burning up. He’s sick, fever spiking through his body. He’s also sunburnt beyond belief. Being a malnourished white man in Egypt isn’t really the best idea Sherlock has ever had.

Canada had sucked but god he misses the chilly weather. The heat is overwhelming, all consuming. He’s sweating constantly and his nose won’t stop running.

He misses the cold. He misses coke. And he really misses home.

John would nurse his illness and make him feel better. John would actually help him through this.

Moriarty’s men rest for no man, not even a sick Sherlock Holmes. So he moves forward and tries to ignore how pink his skin is and how congested his chest is.

He really hopes his estimates are right and this should be over in a year.

London’s climate is far more suitable for him and god, he wishes he had John to make him some tea.

He tumbles off a gravel truck and due to his congested dizziness, immediately eats sand. He also manages to sprain his ankle on the way down. He fucking hates Egypt.

He spends a few days holed up in a dilapidated building. He can’t move very fast with his bum ankle and he isn’t really sure what his next step is going to be. He’s too sick to think and still recovering from his time spent in captivity.

More of him hurts than doesn’t.

His wrists still haven’t healed completely, ligaments torn beyond repair. Well, that is a little bit dramatic. He’ll be fine, more fine if he saw a doctor but fine nonetheless.

He can’t help but groan everytime he moves his left shoulder. It’s taken more hits than the rest of his body. His scapula has started to become winged, sticking out awkwardly. He’s not sure it’ll ever be the same. Mycroft will probably throw a hissy fit when he finds out.

A bomb goes off somewhere in the distance, a sharp explosion echoing for through the air. He can hear a building nearby crumble to the ground. He hopes it's just construction.

Silence fills the stifling hot air. He lets out a shaky breath and waits. Waits for another bomb or a jack hammer or gun fire.

It feels like hours before he finally hears something, before the silence breaks.

Someone starts screaming.

He should have abandoned hope a long time ago.

Fear makes its home in his chest. Was the bomb from one of Moriaty’s men? Was it the Americans? MI6 playing games with a smaller country? Was it Egypt’s own government cleaning house?

There’s no way to know from where he sits on the sandy concrete floor, eyes squinting in the darkness. The screaming doesn’t stop for a few minutes; it tears through the air like a serrated blade. It’s a woman, voice shrill and filled with pain.

She’s lost someone. Blood is staining the sidewalk outside. He can almost see it, red dripping behind his sore eyes.

He remembers how it feels to hear that screaming, that desperation.

_ He’s my friend. _

The warmth where thick fingers wrapped around his wrist, desperate for a pulse he wouldn’t find. The cold press of the wet concrete. The sticky blood. The pinch of the ball under his arm. The pinch of the nails digging into his skin while John was dragged away.

The screaming doesn’t ever really stop, not even when the night falls and a thick darkness blankets the city.

Sherlock covers his ears. The skin of his lip rips as he sinks his teeth in. He wants to scream too. He wants to rip his throat raw like he did in Canada.

It sits perched under his tongue like a rabid dog, trying to claw its way out.

If he starts, he isn’t sure he can stop. Mind Palace Mycroft tsks from the corner of the room.

He crams his fist into his mouth, sandy skin rough against his tongue. His teeth tear at his knuckles as he bites down and cries. It’s a broken snarl against his own filthy hand. It tastes metallic and wrong. His teeth are stained a disgusting red and he can feel it.

Viscous flashes of a flesh tearing in his mouth, the gurgling screams of Jameison’s dying moments.

He sinks his teeth in deeper, tears springing in his eyes. Echoes of death and violence ricochet around his skull. He thinks about the pool and how scared John had been. He thinks about Irene and her cunning grin. He thinks about Mycroft’s attempts at civility and Lestrade's brotherly concern.

When did his life get like this? When did he stop being able to wash the blood off his hands?

When did it start to hurt so much?

He pulls his hand away and lets it fall to the floor. His back presses into the rough stone of the wall, knees bent awkwardly in front of him. Searing pain shoots through his ankle and his wrists sting at every move. Almost every joint in his body is swollen and painful.

He pulls his knees to his chest, joints cracking. He lays his head down and presses his cheek to his knee. He feels like a child, curled up in a corner hiding from the big bad world outside.

Egypt is a big place for such a little boy, a man clinging to his past. He misses London and the chilly streets. He misses John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He misses cases and Mycroft’s annoyed calls. He misses not sweating on the floor of some random building. He misses not burning up in the sun. He misses having someone to care for him when his fever spikes too high.

He misses the cold press of concrete floors and chains. He misses the freezing flash of a belt buckle digging into his spine. He misses the cold drips of water that were washed away by a warm flood of arterial spray.

He misses not caring about the sound of gunfire, about the sight of blood, about the sensation of pain.

Another bomb goes off at sunrise.

Sherlock decides then that his pain doesn’t matter. Healing can wait. He has to take down Moriarty’s Egyptian web and move on to the next spider.

Blotchy rust colored stains decorate his knuckles like a sick war paint. He grabs his gun and ignores the ache in his wrists. Screaming fills the street outside as another rotting building falls and a bazaar gets covered in debris. He tunes it out and thinks about the rumors he heard before tumbling off the gravel truck and sending himself straight to bedrest.

“You aren’t ready for this type of movement, brother.”

He suppresses the urge to shoot his brother in the head. It’s a waste of a bullet. You can’t kill your own brain.

Well, he can’t without ending the mission prematurely.

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

February is similarly awful. He’s been dead for over a year and he still hasn’t gotten good at it. He got over the flu and got some aloe for his pasty skin. His ankle clicks when he walks but it doesn’t hurt unless he runs too much. Which is too bad for him seeing as he’s been running non-stop since he left Egypt.

He takes another bullet in Saudi Arabia. He’s happy it's not another shoulder hit but getting shot in the leg isn’t much better. The muscle in his calf is basically ground beef from the bullet splintering. He gets shrapnel in his ribs from a small explosion, and he honestly can’t even blame himself when he starts taking painkillers again.

It’s better than turning back to coke, and he can’t function anymore without morphine running through his veins. He needs to function to finish the mission. He needs to finish the mission so he can finally stop and heal. So painkillers it is until he can finally rest  — until he’s finally got his doctor by his side again.

The painkillers keep him going for a while. They keep him moving while his wounds half-heal and permanent damage starts to set in.

Saudi Arabia is still too hot.

He shaves his head again, shearing it off without any care for how it looks. His half-bleached curls were getting to be too warm. The back of his neck was perpetually sweaty, and he doesn’t have proper access to a shower. He smells awful and he knows it.

And he’s really tired of smelling like a dirty street dog.

The wound in his calf slows him down but he can’t stop moving. Moriarty’s men in Saudi Arabia are relentless. He’s constantly being hunted down, stalked like prey through the desert.

He knew that news would get around of Moriarty’s webs falling. He understood that eventually his enemies would be expecting his arrival. He hadn’t expected to be caught so quickly or to be immediately met with a bullet in the leg.

Taking out the Saudi branch is proving to be harder than he thought it would. They’re organized and persistent, and Sherlock is still struggling to move his arms without groaning in pain.

It seems they specialize in weapons trafficking, moving military grade weapons through the Middle East and providing radical groups with the weaponry they need to wreak havoc. They also have a tendency for taking out rival political factions which means MI6 is watching.

Mycroft is watching.

He hasn’t checked in since Christmas. He isn’t sure why he keeps telling his brother he will. Calling Mycroft sucks the life out of him, reminds of the life he’s been running from since last January. If he makes too much of a mess here, he’s sure that Mycroft will send in the troops, blow his cover, and tear him a new one.

So Sherlock moves quickly and silently — except for the cracking of his swollen joints. He tries not to draw any attention to himself, making most of his movements under the cover of night.

He has to stop every hour or so to change his bandages. He bleeds through the gauze often and pops pills whenever possible. His supply is running low which is worrisome seeing how he needs them to function as of late.

It’s not like he can just stop at a pharmacy and ask for more, so he makes an attempt to ration and moves on.

There’s a warehouse of weapons outside of Dhahran. He can’t burn it down but he can cause a big enough incident that MI6 swoops in to save the day. If they don’t clean up his mess, the Americans will come in. They may be shady and egotistical, but the Americans move quickly and love saving the day. Either will work just fine.

Dhahran is an oil city which means its wealth distribution is wildly unequal. There’s several schools and fancy hotels throughout the city. It’s smaller than most of Saudi’s cities with a population of about 140,000. It’s large compared to some of the cities he’s been in but it doesn’t come close to the 8 million people in London. It also doesn’t provide much cover.

A bald white man with a bad limp isn’t exactly normal in the city. It only gets worse when someone notices how badly he’s bleeding.

Drugs are readily available in most of Saudi’s bigger cities, rich socialites causing a demand for it. Sherlock didn’t get a chance to tap into the flow before he was forced to move on to Dhahran. It was mostly ecstasy and molly anyway. Not really his scene.

A stranger bumps into him, slamming into his shoulder. It takes everything in him not to scream.

His left shoulder burns like a wildfire. The ligaments will probably never heal properly. He’ll probably never be able to use it as well as he used to.

“Sorry.” It’s a harsh murmur as he tries not to curse, biting his tongue.

He probably won’t be able to play the violin again, unable to bear much weight with his left arm.

The sun starts to set and Sherlock tries to find a hotel that won’t ask too many questions or charge too much cash. He pushes all thoughts of his shoulder into the back of his mind. He really misses London’s weather. It’s 17 degrees in Dhahran this time of year, which is still hotter than the average low in London during summer.

It may also just be hot because he came to Northern Africa and the Middle East directly after almost freezing to death in Canada.

He doesn’t really care. He’s still sunburnt and sweaty and the humidity makes him feel like he’s two seconds from growing moss. He just wants a cold shower and a long nap. His wounds are gross  — just shy of being infected  — and full of sand from his maddash out of Africa. Sweat and blood and a little bit of vomit all come together to make Sherlock look and smell like a homeless man.

If he thinks about it, he is kind of homeless. He has a home; he just can’t go to it.

The man behind the hotel desk looks terrified of him, clearly used to high class business men and oil tycoons. Sherlock’s perfect Arabic doesn’t seem to help with his worries, but he doesn’t say anything when Sherlock pays for the next 2 days in cash.

He strips quickly once in the privacy of his room. He’s in desperate need of a good shower and doesn’t hesitate to jump in without waiting for the temperature to adjust. The cool water soothes his aching muscles and his bright pink skin. He presses his hands against the tile and leans forward into the spray.

His knees shake a little under his weight. He’s so tired. He’s been running on empty for weeks now. The scabs on his back break open a little under the pressure of the water, diluted blood streaking down his spine. Belt lacerations and bullet wounds don’t tend to leave a man in tiptop shape.

He slips down the wall and lets himself rest in the tub. The cold water comforts him, reminding him of the rainy days he spent in London. With the sand out of his wounds and his painkillers wearing off, he needs to get out. He’s clean enough, buzzed head not really needing to be washed, but he can’t find the energy to move. He’s lost a lot of blood in the past few weeks. He’s lost a lot of weight too, not really gaining it back after his time under Jamieson’s thumb. He’s sickly and pale and oh so tired, so he sleeps with the water still running.

The water bill isn’t his problem.

When he wakes up, he thinks he’s being waterboarded. He gasps against the cold spray and struggles to stand. His feet slip on the wet tile and his arms aren’t strong enough to catch him.

He falls, head hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Brain disoriented and head aching, he attempts to stand. It takes a few tries but he finally gets a good grip on the sink and drags himself to his feet.

It takes him a second to remember where he is, safe and sound in an overly expensive hotel.

He needs to make a plan to take down the warehouse. Going in guns blazing isn’t really on the table anymore seeing as he can hardly move. John would think of something. Something so stupid and idiotic that it’d shock Sherlock back into his prime state. 

A chill settles in his bones as he reaches for a towel. The heat is going to be hell later but he can’t complain. He put himself in this situation; he failed to kill Moriarty that night at the pool. He deserves this.

A shudder runs through him and he moves to grab his pills. Sherlock Holmes deserves this. 


	8. Bleeding Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is nowhere to be found, Mycroft and Greg struggle with the reality of their strange situation, and John finds that healing is never linear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: vomitting and references to heavy drinking as a coping mechnism. references to fake suicide. also slight self-harm warning (greg tries to pick up broken glass despite knowing it might hurt him)
> 
> this chapter is a little late because writer's block sucks. sorry guys

Mycroft has been in a constant state of worry since January. It hadn’t been so bad in February. He understands that Sherlock can’t always be in contact. One month isn’t so awful, not by Sherlock standards anway. It’s a bit worrying because of Sherlock’s vague talk about being captured, but it’s fine.

Everything is fine until one month becomes two months and two months becomes three months and then suddenly it’s April.

Four months with zero contact. Sherlock had said he would try to remain in contact more regularly and now this. Radio silence. Not only radio silence but also zero Sherlock-like activity on Mycroft’s radar.

It’s unsettling and a little more than terrifying.

He hopes that Sherlock has just gotten better at being secretive, but he highly doubts it. It’s a statistical improbability. His brother loves drama, loves to put on a show. The only thing that might be him was a large firefight in Saudi Arabia that was intercepted by the Americans. Mortars and grenades had gone off in a warehouse in an oil based city. MI6 caught it a little late, but America has always been quick to jump on anything impacting the oil trade.

Sherlock hadn’t set off any bombs previously but it still could have been him. Mycroft really hopes it was. If it wasn’t, he has no idea where his brother has been since Christmas.

He tosses back some panadol. He’s getting stress headaches almost constantly these days. Greg tries to help with soft words and a steady supply of painkillers, but Mycroft knows it’s a losing battle. He won’t be able to feel better until his brother is home.

Mycroft worrying means Greg is worrying.

Greg starts drinking a little more than he should, forced to deal with John’s pain as well as Mycroft’s worry. John has been a better friend recently, kind words and light banter. He still avoids the topic of Sherlock but Greg doesn’t really mind. Not bringing it up means he doesn’t have to lie. He isn’t sure how long he could handle lying to John. He can barely handle the stress  _ of knowing _ let alone the stress of pretending not to know. A few beers here and there help ease his mind, and if a few beers becomes one too many, he can’t find it in him to really care.

Two stressed out and worried men dancing around one another is a recipe for disaster. Greg’s drinking and Mycroft’s stress eating mix together in a nasty cocktail of them constantly being annoyed with the world around them.

They try their best to keep from taking it out on one another. Greg doesn’t mention Mycroft's seemingly endless pile of cake and Mycroft tries not to stare too long when Greg goes for another beer. It only works some of the time.

Sometimes they can’t help but boil over. They don’t shout or get physical, but it still forces them apart. Glares and sharp words and eye rolls culminate into a tension that never quite fades. A canyon between them grows as each day passes. And apparently today is the day it grew too wide because Mycroft woke up alone despite having fallen asleep next to his darling detective inspector.

It only stings a little.

He moves down the spiral stairs lazily. He needs a good coffee and maybe a chocolate croissant or two. He wishes Greg were here to spend the morning with. The droll start to his day is always more bearable when his lover is by his side.

Greg is standing in the kitchen with a somber look on his face, hands gripping the counter in a white knuckle grasp. He’s shaking a little and his eyes are glazed over. There’s a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream next to him, half empty and open. Mycroft feels worry gnaw at his gut.

Glass is shattered across the floor. A coffee mug. A full one judging by the coffee staining the white tiles.

“Dearest?”

The older man twitches, a full body flinch away from Mycroft’s voice. He quickly falls to his knees. The thud makes Mycroft cringe. It had to have hurt, his knees cracking against the cold tile. He’s picking up the glass without any thought to his own safety. 

“Greg!”

Red mixes grossly with the brown liquid on the floor. Glass sticks out of Greg’s sliced palm. It’s not a very large cut, a miniscule laceration that won’t require stitches, but it still makes Mycroft’s heart stop.

“Sorry...Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

Mycroft reaches out, gently taking Greg’s bloody hand in his own. The silver haired man looks at him with bleary eyes. He’s distant, mentally miles from Mycroft’s kitchen floor. Mycroft strokes his thumb over Greg’s knuckles in an attempt to comfort him.

“Hello, darling, where’s your head at?”

Greg shifts from his position on the floor, sitting back on his ankles. He offers up his injured hand for Mycroft to inspect. His eyes are still glazed over and he reeks of burnt coffee and alcohol.

“I was just getting ready to leave. I made you some coffee. Don’t really know what happened after that.”

His voice is far away, small and soft. He isn’t looking at Mycroft, eyes locked with the shattered mug. His hand is shaking in Mycroft’s grasp. Small tremors that make his fingernails scrape against Mycroft’s palm. He doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t seem to notice anything.

“Thank you for the coffee, dearest. Any reason for you to be drinking this early?” Mycroft keeps his voice quiet. He doesn’t want to spook Greg or make him feel threatened.

Greg waits a few beats before responding, lost in whatever thoughts are filling his head. “I don’t have work today. John doesn’t want to meet up. Didn’t see any reason not to drink.”

It hits Mycroft very belatedly that perhaps his worry is affecting Greg as well, that maybe his brother being gone has a bigger impact than they previously believed. Mycroft reaches out his free hand and cups his lover’s face. Greg leans into it, eyes slipping shut. Mycroft would smile if he wasn’t so concerned.

“Gregory, darling, do you want to go sit in the living room? I can clean up in here and get you another coffee.”

The silver haired man thinks for a moment and wobbles to his feet. It’s clear his knees didn’t handle the impact with the floor well. His face screws up in pain as he moves, joints cracking as he walks to the couch.

Mycroft grabs a broom and sweeps up the glass before wiping up the coffee with a damp paper towel. It isn’t too big of a mess. It takes no time at all to clean but he lingers in the kitchen for a while after he’s done. He isn’t sure what’s wrong with Greg and it’s distressing. He knows stress can have some very adverse effects on the mind and body but Greg’s actions seem a little too strange for it to just be stress.

“I’m sorry, Myc.” It’s a quiet little apology, murmured from the safety of the couch, but Mycroft hears it. Greg is staring at the powered down TV screen blankly but his eyes seem clearer now, less foggy.

Mycroft smoothly moves to his lover’s side, one track in his need to comfort him. Greg turns to him slowly; his eyes still turned downward like he’s afraid to face Mycroft.

“Why are you sorry? It was an accident. Nothing more.”

“I broke a mug because I got caught up in my head like an idiot,” He says it with a bit of self-conscious venom that makes Mycroft’s frozen heart ache. “Then I cut my hand like an even bigger idiot.”

Mycroft takes a seat next to Greg and turns his body to face him, purposefully making his body language relaxed and open. His arms are open wide and he keeps his eyes soft and comforting. Greg slowly turns into it, body shifting minutely towards his partner’s welcoming body.

“What were you thinking about?”

Greg sighs, a whole body sort of vocalization. His shoulders shudder and he stares down at the carpet. “Sherlock and John and you mostly.”

“Just mostly?”

“Yeah. A little bit about work but mostly you guys.” Greg says tiredly, not even glancing up at Mycroft’s concerned face.

Mycroft’s hand grazes over the other man’s face, fingers ghosting over his cheek. Greg doesn’t lean into the touch this time. Instead he just turns his body and tosses his legs over Mycroft’s, blanketing him with his thighs.

“Anything particular? You seemed pretty distressed.”

“It’s March and Sherlock isn’t home yet and you seem stressed out and you haven’t had a call from him in a long time and John is messaging me more but he still seems really lost and I’m afraid that when he does finally get over Sherlock,” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and clenches his eyes shut like he can’t stand to finish the thought. “I’m afraid that when he finally gets over Sherlock dying, Sherlock will come back and hurt him again and I...I’m not sure he can handle the betrayal again.”

Silence hangs in the air between them, heavy with emotion and all the unspoken implications of Greg's words. Mycroft takes a moment to collect his own thoughts. He isn’t the best with words. He never has been. Being in politics allowed him to gain a bit of social tact but when it comes to emotional matters, he is out of his comfort zone.

“I’m sorry I told you about my brother’s survival and about all the stress it has clearly caused you.”

It obviously isn’t the correct response. Greg’s lip turns up revealing white teeth in an angry snarl. He lets out a huff and glares daggers at his lover, finally looking at him.

“It would have been worse if you didn’t tell me. You know how much it would have hurt to have him come back and know you kept it from me?,” He pauses and grabs Mycroft’s shoulder in a proverbial clutch for balance. “That you let me  _ mourn _ ?”

Mycroft nods in understanding, trying to take in the information. He’s not great with emotions but being with Greg helps. Mycroft may not be able to completely understand but it is easy to play the role of the emotional soundboard when Greg is involved.

“And if I can barely stomach the thought of it, how do you think John is going to feel when it’s a reality? When everything comes to light and he realizes that not one, not two, but three of the people he thought he could trust knew about Sherlock’s lie?” Greg’s voice is distraught, wavering slightly on the last word. He’s still glaring at Mycroft, eyes aflame with anger and sadness and so much more that Mycroft can’t name. It’s a lot to take in; it’s a lot to comprehend.

“I don’t know. My brother and I have never been good with emotions and empathy. Sherlock’s only goal was to keep you all safe and I couldn’t help but agree that your lives were more important than our relationships.”

Greg doesn’t speak for a while. The minutes tick by at a creepingly slow pace that makes Mycroft’s skin feel too tight. Worry settles back into his chest; he finally remembers that Sherlock is out of contact.

He needs to get Anthea on it. No specific information but instructions to look for any major destruction or odd criminal behavior by a ghost.

“I know you didn’t mean to cause so much pain, but I’m… I’m really worried about what John might do when Sherlock comes back.”

Mycroft doesn’t think before he speaks. “If Sherlock comes back. He hasn’t checked in in months.”

Greg’s jaw drops and his eyes go wide. His hands start to shake again, twitching restlessly. He turns away from Mycroft and rubs his palms over his eyes tiredly. Mycroft feels sick as waves of regret hit him, pulling under the water of his own idiotic mistake. He reaches out, barely ghosting his hand over Greg’s shoulder, before resting it there. Greg lets out a broken and exhausted sigh before leaning into the touch.

“I could really use that coffee you promised.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything in response, simply standing up and walking to the kitchen. They can get through this. They just need some time to adjust. They just need confirmation on Sherlock’s well being. They just need his brother home and safe and John Watson to be okay. Mycroft needs Greg to be okay.

He pours himself and his lover a cup of black coffee and doesn’t think twice before adding a bit of the Bailey’s. They’ve been through a lot today. They could both use a drink.

John doesn’t particularly care for March in London. It’s rainier than usual and the cloudy skies make him want to curl up in bed all day and sleep. It doesn’t help that being back at work leaves him exhausted most days. He barely has time to exist outside of helping patients and going to therapy and trying to keep himself fed. He’s worn down most days but he likes to think he’s still doing better than he was before.

He had therapy earlier today. Sheila had said he was making strides towards recovery and his coping mechanisms are improving a lot. He tries not to let the praise get to him; he understands that thinking his infallible will only lead to him falling back into old habits.

Therapy is great and all, but he still feels scraped raw like a layer of his brain has sloughed off. He doesn’t cry during therapy very often. He did a few times near the beginning when he finally decided to be honest, but nowadays he can usually go a whole session without losing himself in his emotions. Today had been a fairly easy session. Mostly just praise and encouragement. He felt good, a little tired, but still good.

He hasn’t felt good in a really long time.

It’s odd, but he can’t complain.

Greg hasn’t messaged him back about going out for lunch so he decides to go on his own. Not Angelo’s but somewhere nice enough. He still isn’t ready to face that place without his partner in crime. He doesn’t want to ruin a good day by biting off more than he can chew, literally and metaphorically.

He’s walking down the street, a slight pep in his step. It’s cloudy out but not rainy, so he tries not to let the weather get him down. His knee aches a little but not enough to warrant dragging his cane around with him all day. There’s a small chip cart near the flat that sells the best hot chips so he doesn’t even have to walk far. Everything is going well for the first time in a very long time.

It’s not perfect. His knee does hurt and the cloudy sky makes him tired and he hasn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately — which isn’t that much of a far cry from his days of sleeping too much. But it’s good.

John Watson feels good.

John Watson feels good until he doesn’t.

John Watson feels good until a panhandler on the side of the street catches his eye. He looks familiar but John can’t quite place his face. He knows he’s seen him before but isn’t sure about the context. Maybe he’d seen him by the chip cart before?

But that doesn’t feel right.

John takes his chips and makes it half-way into his flat when it hits him like a lead pipe to the back of the skull.

He’d seen that man before at Bart’s. He’d been dressed far cleaner, nice slacks and a blazer. He’d been clean shaven then too. His hand had gripped John’s shoulder tight, had pulled him back. He had pulled John away from Sherlock.

John barely makes it into the flat before he vomits, bile and a few freshly eaten chips spilling into the rubbish bin.

That man had been there that day. Sure as he lives and breathes that man had been there. That man had grabbed him and tried to rip him away from his best friend. He’d tugged at John’s jumper and tried to drag him away. A homeless man who also happened to panhandle less than a block away had been there that day, dressed nicely and cleanly shaven,

Sherlock always said that coincidences didn’t exist. That everything was some sort of pattern even if it didn’t seem like it.

John feels sick.

Flashes of red and grey and black and oh god, so much  _ red _ .

John vomits again, an empty dry heave. His chips are scattered across the floor. He can’t eat them now. Not after his day has taken a turn for the very worst.

Someone, who most likely had been a part of Sherlock’s homeless network, had been there on the day of the fall. That same someone had tried to keep John away from the body. Had Sherlock not wanted his friend to see the worst of the carnage? Was it simply a coincidence? Is his mind making false connections because he doesn’t know how to be happy for very long? Did it mean something or was he just making a mountain out of a molehill?

_ I love my brother _ .

Such a stupid fucking phrase.

John shoves himself up into a sitting position, crushing his back up against the wall. His food is splayed out in front of him in mockery. His stomach turns again but there’s nothing left to throw up. He’s empty.

_ He’s my friend. _

He’s so empty.

It doesn’t mean what he wants it to. It can’t mean what he thinks it does. Sherlock wouldn’t lie. Mycroft wouldn’t slip so easy. Sherlock wouldn’t betray him like that, wouldn’t make him suffer like that.

He probably just didn’t want John to see him like that. It is probably just a coincidence. His brain is probably playing tricks on him because he can’t just let himself feel good.

He wretches again and it makes his throat burn. Tears drip from his eyes as he dry heaves a few more times. The scraped raw feeling he used to get from therapy worms it’s way into his chest. He claws at his shirt, desperate to be able to breath, for this to stop hurting so much.

The palms of his hands press roughly against his eyes. He can’t cry today. Today had been so good. He can’t ruin it now. He can’t let this stupid little incident ruin his one good day after months of feeling like shit. He can’t cling like this. He can’t let his idiotic brain make connections that aren’t there.

Sherlock Holmes is dead. Nothing will ever change that. Not a verb tense or a familiar face or all the wishing in the world.

He struggles to stand, hand slipping off the counter as he tries to clutch for balance. His knees wobble and he holds back the urge to wretch again. He’s okay. He’s fine. He has to be fine. Today has been good. Today will continue to be good. He can’t let this slip up control his mood. He can still have a nice night. He can order in some Thai — not Thai Sherlock loved Thai — maybe some Indian. He will have a nice night.

Not because he wants to but because he needs to.

John calls a takeout place that’s a little out of the way to give himself some time to clean up before his food arrives. He also makes sure to pick a place he never had with Sherlock. He’s fragile right now; it’s evident from the food on the floor and the taste of acid in his throat. He’s got this.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

He cleans and takes out the rubbish. He brushes his teeth and avoids glancing in the mirror. He eats his dinner and forces himself not to think about how much blood there had been. How it had been thick, almost black. How it stained his sharp cheekbones and marred a perfect face.

Wheezy breath in. Wheezy breath out.

He tries to think of good memories instead. Vague ones that won’t cause him too much pain but will bring him comfort nonetheless. It’s a fine line to walk, but he tries his best to skate along it.

Soft smiles and Thai food. Cases and experiments. Toes in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall. Silent Night and God Save the Queen. Tongue and cheek banter. Razor sharp wit. Poison tea and punches.

Shuddered breath in. Shuddered breath out.

He takes a bite of his food and tries to watch tellie.

_ I love my brother _ . The homeless man’s face. The feeling of overwhelming dread as he watched Sherlock plunge behind the ambulance dock.

He never saw him hit the ground.

John tosses his food to the side with a disgusted snarl and limps to the bedroom, knee aching the whole way. He can’t do this tonight. He can’t battle his own brain. He can’t have a good night, so he’ll end his night early and go to sleep, wishing for good dreams but knowing only nightmares will come. Red and grey and black blur together behind his eyes and wishes he hadn’t taken all the alcohol out of the flat.

He could really use a drink right now.


	9. White Snakeroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deals with the consequences of his actions and tries not rely on his memory of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: non-con drug use (Sherlock drugs someone for the sake of the mission), drinking, major injuries, death, and gun violence.
> 
> Once again sorry that this chapter is a day late, writers block is killing me.

Ringing fills his ears, sharp and incessant. It rattles around his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull like a nausea-inducing bouncy ball. He wobbles on his feet as he tries to escape the sound. Vertigo blends with blood loss and exhaustion to form the perfect potion for tripping over his own feet.

He sputters as sand sticks to the roof of his mouth, ripping it raw. The grains crunch between his teeth and blood mixes with his saliva. Sherlock spits out what he can, sputtering as he tries to regain his balance. It’s a pathetic and futile attempt. The sand sticks to the sides of his cheeks and grinds between his teeth despite his efforts. It doesn’t really matter. He’s suffered through more uncomfortable things, like the way his ears won’t stop ringing and his legs refuse to hold his weight.

Flames lick up the side of the warehouse. Debris and dust blanket the surrounding landscape. Oranges and reds blur against a grey background like warm oil painting, warping what was once a clean canvas.

Heat envelops Sherlock despite the distance between his prone body and what used to be a warehouse. It laps at his sun burnt skin and makes his already dizzy head spin.

His skin is tacky with sweat, far too warm and swampy. Sands creeps into the crevices of his skin and blood drips down the curves of his scrawny body. He can’t seem to get his feet underneath him. He shakes like a newborn deer, limbs long and awkward as he desperately tries to find his balance.

Sirens scream in the distance, echoing alongside the ringing in his ears. He’s got to go. He’s got to go  _ now _ .

The dry grass offers little traction as he struggles to move. Black smoke coats the inside of his raw throat and forces thick, broken coughs past his chapped lips. He runs as quickly as his tortured body will allow him. 

His lungs burn and his throat is bloody and his muscles ache. Shrubbery and dry grass blur in his peripherals as he pushes his transport to its limits. He has to put distance between himself and the destruction he’s caused, has to escape the consequences of his half-thought-through actions. A helicopter lands somewhere behind him and firetrucks kick up more dust as they arrive on the scene.

The sound is nothing more than white noise. Blood rushes through his ears which still haven’t stopped ringing. All he can hear is a shrill whine from inside his skull, his rabbit-fast heartbeat, and the shuddering sound of his breath.

Time slips away from him as the sun crosses the sky. He doesn’t stop running until the light dips behind the horizon and orange paints the once inky black sky. It’s a very different orange now, one that indicates warmth instead of heat. Watercolor instead of oil paint.

As darkness settles over the land, Sherlock finds himself faltering. He can’t run for much longer, can hardly walk. The soles of his shoes are shredded and his calves burn worse than any gunshot wound he’s suffered so far. He less lets himself rest and more collapses against his own will, aching body slamming into the dry dirt.

Blood drips down the side of his head, reminding him how royally he messed up earlier. His eardrum is most definitely busted on the right and his left isn’t faring much better. The ringing is fading, but it hasn’t quite dissipated. He’s not sure his hearing will ever be 100% again; there’s no one to blame for it other than himself and his blatant stupidity.

He can hear the sound of flowing water nearby, can smell the salt in the air. He’s near the Persian Gulf, somewhere between Dhahran and a port city he can’t bother to remember the name of.

Boat horns cut through the cool night air and Sherlock makes a mental note to try a stow away on one in the morning. Bahrain isn’t too far of a ride away; the luxurious cities of the main island will give him a decent cover until he’s ready to move on. He’s not going to bounce back from this like he had hoped. Injury after injury after injury without time to heal has started to wear him down, whittle down his will until he’s nothing but a weak mass of bruises.

He’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to come back from this mission. Everything hurts, everything is broken, everything refuses to heal how it should. He’s a mess of blood and sand, a miserable little pile of pain.

The stars twinkle above him, illuminating his wasted form. His bag is laying in the dirt next to him. The contents of it are few, just a handful of painkillers, his Browning Hi-power pistol, and a lighter. He almost wants to reach for it, boney fingers scrapping slowly through the loose dirt, throwing up little puffs of dust. He isn’t quite sure what he even wants to grab. Pills or gun or fire.

It’s all the same in the end.

A plane flies overhead and Sherlock lets his tired eyes track it across the sky, a small moving light amongst the stars. His fingers stretch towards the sky, slender and boney, like pale stems sprouting upward in search of light. He can almost feel the inky blackness on the tips of his finger, dripping down his arm and blanketing him in its coolness.

His arm shakes, a mix of over exertion and the night air. He lets his arm fall back down to earth, nothing more than a small thud against the birdcage of his ribs.

He shouldn’t fall asleep here. The expanse of the world around him seems so far away but he knows better; he knows he’s exposed. He just set off an IED is a massive weapons warehouse a few miles away, he’s just outside the limits of another city, and he’s simply laying defenseless on the ground by the gulf. He is a sitting duck, waiting for a lucky hunter to shoot him while he rests.

Gunfire fills his ears alongside the faint ringing. The sound of a bomb igniting gunpowder makes him clench his eyes shut. It’s not real; it’s all in his head.

“Sherlock.”

It’s all in his head.

“Sherlock!”

It isn’t real.

“Sherl, please look at me.”

He isn’t here. He  _ can’t _ be here.

Sherlock opens his eyes, letting the overwhelming darkness invade his vision. He can barely see but he knows if he turns just a fraction to his left, John will be standing there. He’ll be standing there with a concerned look on his beautiful face. A grey jumper stretched over his broad shoulders. A light tan across his face. He’ll look amazing, standing there by Sherlock’s side.

He isn’t real.

“Sherlock, you need to take some painkillers and stretch your muscles out. You also might want to change your bandages.” John whispers, quiet against the sound of Sherlock’s mind.

It’s so ironic. His mind being quieted by his mind. A figment of his imagination being silenced by his haunted memories. A chuckle passes his lips, carrying through the night. John laughs with him because his brain finds it so funny. His John wouldn’t find it funny.

His John is sitting back in 221b, moving on, leaving Sherlock alone in the dirt.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, another bit of irony hits him. It’s Valentine’s day. Or, it’s within a week of Valentine’s day. He hasn’t really kept track of time recently.

Of course mind palace John would show up on a traditionally romantic holiday, visit him at his most broken, his most vulnerable.

“You aren’t real.”

Mind palace John laughs again, and it feels like a mockery of the real thing. A wave of disgust rolls over Sherlock. Try as he might he can never recreate John perfectly, can’t even make a passable attempt at it. It feels wrong, sickeningly and grossly wrong.

“Of course I’m not real. You wouldn’t want me here if I was.”

He’s right. Real John would be in danger if he was here. Real John would also see how poorly Sherlock has been performing, how many stupid mistakes he’s made.

“He’d want you to take care of yourself, Sherlock,” Not-John says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, tone bordering on annoyed. Sherlock can’t be angry at him for it. He is nothing but a manifestation of what Sherlock’s mind thinks he needs in the moment. Apparently his mind thinks he needs to suffer more than he already is.

“What do  _ you _ want?”

Not-John stares down at him for a moment, eyes filled with pity. Sherlock wishes he hadn’t spoken, that the ground would swallow him up. He almost takes it back, but Not-John cuts him off. “I want what you want.”

“I,” The words escape him; they drift up into the night air and away from his feeble body. “I don’t know what I want, John.”

It’s the honesty of the confession that breaks him. It’s the final straw. Tears drip down his temple and into his hair, gravity pulling the salty liquid down towards the dry dirt. He doesn’t really care anymore. There isn’t anyone here to see him, not really. By tomorrow night there will be no sign he was even here, let alone that he cried here. The ground will soak up his tears and he will pack away his sadness as he hits the road.

His feelings have no bearing on the world around. His emotions can’t affect the outcome of this mission.

“Yes, you do, Sherlock, even if you don’t realize it yet.”

It falls on deaf ears. Sherlock has shut his eyes once more, long lashes pressed lightly against warm, pink skin. He isn’t asleep yet, lingering in the realm of consciousness. He really should take Not-John’s advice. His muscle twinge from lack of movement and his joint feel painfully tight.

Sherlock Holmes has always been a stubborn man.

“Goodnight, darling.” Not-John’s voice soothes an unrest he didn’t know he felt. He tries not to focus too much on the pet name. He doesn’t need to know what it means to find it so comforting, to find such hope in a single word. 

Sherlock swims in the darkness behind his eyelids and ignores the way his heart flutters in his frail chest. It’s an oil slick in his mind, a mix of black and sparks of shimmering color. Not-John has lightened his night, given the darkness a pearlescent glow. His heart gives a small skip.

It’s such a stupid thing to cling to, his mind’s projection of his favorite person, a person he can’t have anymore. 

The February night is cool against his heated skin and mind palace John is humming a soft tune beside him. It’s comfortable despite his pain and the ringing in his ears is fading every second. Memories of gunfire and flames fade to the background as Not-John’s rumbling voice carries a song with the gulf harmonizing.

He can rest now and handle everything else in the morning, under the blazing Saudi sun. This place will never remember him once he’s gone. He will be nothing but a lingering smell of smoke in the noses of Moriarty’s men.

A lulling calmness pulls him into the deep, dark pool of his mind, and Sherlock let’s it, relaxes in the grip of sleep. Not-John can’t keep him safe like real John can but the comfort is all the same. 

He doesn’t dream all night.

The sun wakes him an undetermined amount of hours later, blinding him as he rouses slowly. He rolls sleepily, not caring about the dirt rubbing into his already dirty clothes. Mind palace John isn’t sitting by his side anymore. Sherlock feels the loss before he sees it, missing the sound of Not-John’s sweet humming.

He doesn’t have time to mourn it, to think about how alone he is. He has a boat to catch. He can’t stay here any longer, exposed and out in the open.

Catching the boat is easy, making it to Bahrain is easier, and passing out in the nearest vaguely-cheap hotel is the easiest thing he’s ever done. He’ll sleep off his injuries for a few days, wait for his bullet wound to actually heal up. It’s a small reprieve, but it’s all he has. He’ll have to move on again soon, find his way to the next web. Iran maybe? Iraq? 

He’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it, leave behind more smoke in his wake, but right now his fire is dwindling, burning out before his eyes. He’ll take his time to gather some kindling before moving on, spreading destruction to everything Moriarty ever worked for.

_ I will burn the heart out of you _ .

Hah… Irony strikes again.

February bleeds into March as he makes his way into Baghdad. He rested for about a week, sleeping more than anything else. He ate bad hotel food and popped the last of his painkillers until he could stand without it hurting so much he’d almost vomit.

His calf is still a bit of a mess, more scar tissue than anything else, but he can walk without noticeably limping. It’s an improvement. It allows him to dip and duck into alleyways without feeling like his leg is on fire which comes in handy while in Iraq.

Moriarty’s men in Baghdad are jacks of all trades, moving guns, drugs, and women throughout the middle east and across the world. They’re brazen with their business. The police and politicians are as cheap as they are corrupt, and the night life reflects it. Baghdad is an underworld without a cover, business and pleasure blend under the sweltering sun as normal citizens try to live their lives.

It’s an easy city to infiltrate without being recognized. It’s the biggest city in Iraq, an epicenter for movement. People fill the streets and Sherlock lets himself get lost in the crowd. It’s easy to hide in plain sight. Especially when his enemy isn’t quite sure what they’re looking for.

Haifa Street is sleazy but it provides a steady flow of information. They keep it a little more toned down there, odd for a red light district, but considering the punishment for protitution in Iraq it isn’t too surprising. Drugs and women are the most common commodity and a white man wearing nice clothes isn’t a strange sight.

They don’t know that the clothes and money Sherlock is flashing are stolen, but it works. He hears whispers of dealers and snarls from angry pimps. He hears names and places and all the information he could ever need.

Despite evidence and information being easy to come by, Sherlock is sure this web will be hard to burn. Police corruption meant no turning it in and his stunt in Saudi Arabia meant no using outside law enforcement. If Mycroft didn’t already know where he was, another explosion would change that. He’s going to have to handle this all on his own.

Mycroft would be incredibly helpful in this situation. His ability to pull strings and discreetly handle criminals is perfectly suited for the kind of work Sherlock needs done but calling Mycroft means admitting he needs help. 

Calling Mycroft means hearing about home.

His physical injuries may be healing fine but his mental ones aren’t out of the woods yet. He’s unsteady and he knows it; it’s a simple fact. Him hating his humanity doesn’t change the conditions of it. London, home and those within it, is a sore spot with him and talking to Mycroft will only slow him down.

A woman presses past him in the darkness of the club. The shimmering red satin of her dress catches his eye, the tight fabric shining under the neon lights. His eyes follow her across the room towards the main stage. Another woman spins gracefully around a pole, muscles flexing with effort as sweat and body glitter drips down her ribs. The club is packed with men and women alike, staring up at the dancer.

There are two people in the room not watching the show. Sherlock and a strange man standing by a door near the back, leaning against the wall with his hands crammed in his pockets.

He’s suspicious to say the least.

Sherlock walks over slowly, shifting through the crowd of onlookers. The man eyes him warily. He straightens up from his slouched position against the wall and glares daggers as Sherlock approaches him.

A tv plays from behind the door, barely audible over the raucous of the club. It’s a sports game of some sort. Football maybe? Men chatter underneath the sound even more quiet. Sherlock will have to get in the room to know what’s happening beyond conjecture. 

“Who are you?” It’s spit with a thick accent. Sherlock vaguely feels offended that the man doesn’t think he knows Arabic but decides it’s better to play the tourist.

“Mr. Graves. Howard Graves. I’m in the oil business.”

Sherlock flashes the man a charming smile, a show of teeth. The man snarls back. He’s unimpressed and showing it. Sherlock switches up his game.

“I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the bathroom?” His voice lilts at the end of the sentence, making it sound like a confused question.

The man nods his head towards a door across the room, nestled in the corner by a disgusting looking couch. Sherlock mumbles a thanks and strides over to it. He disappears through the heavy metal door and into the gross bathroom.

He digs through his bag to find a small baggie of pill. He’d bought some GHB earlier in the week. He wasn’t sure if he’d need it but he’s glad he made the purchase.

Slipping it into a drink is the easy part. Getting the door guard to drink it is a lot harder.

When the man finally presses the glass to his lips, a simple cup of water, Sherlock can’t help but grin. The night is coming to a close. Patrons are leaving, a little more than drunk. Last call was a half an hour ago and the dancers are packing up.

It only takes a little but for the drug to take effect. The sedative sets in and the door guard starts to sway on his feet, dizzy and drowsy. Sherlock stalks forward confidently. The man puts up zero fight, slipping down the wall, a little green in the face. Sherlock opens the heavy metal door slowly, listening to the sound of mumbled chatter from the other side.

There’s a group of men sitting at small round table playing cards. They all stare up at Sherlock, shocked and aggressive.

Sherlock has clearly underestimated this, assuming he was walking into another clue and not the final boss. Guns are drawn before he has a second to think. His knees thud against the concrete floor as a bullet buries itself in the wall where his head once was.

He fumbles for his weapon as shouting fills the room. He feels like an idiot, but he doesn’t have time to dwell.

Two more bullets strike the floor next to him as he rolls underneath the table. The men start to scatter, heading for a back door. Sherlock fires one bullet into a man’s upper leg, barely missing his knee, while someone flips the table.

A boot grazes his ribs as he struggles to stand up without getting shot. His ears are ringing again and his heart is beating far too fast. 186. 192. Up and up and up.

He fires another bullet into a man’s chest. Blood splatters across the room as he drops like a sack of rocks. Red pools on the grey floor and someone is shouting in Kurdish, cursing Sherlock and God. Sherlock fires another shot into the shouting man’s head. Brain matter paints the wall and chips of skull fly through the hot air.

It’s a mess. A sick and bloody mess, but he’s fine.

Sherlock is fine.

The adrenaline starts to fade and Sherlock starts to gather his thoughts. He has to evade police, make it to his hotel room unseen, and see if there are any more major players he needs to hunt down.

He makes it all the way to his hotel before he notices the blood staining his no-longer-crisp white shirt. Slender fingers press to the dampness, shaking and uneasy. It’s his blood.

A bullet must have grazed him during the scuffle.

It’s not a big deal. Won’t even need stitches. It’s a graze. His fingers shake as he puts a little pressure on it, curious about how deep it might be.

Air pushes past his gritted teeth and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. He isn’t sure when he got so weak, so shaky and scared and disgustingly human. It’s a simple wound, shallow and already clotting. 

He’s overreacting and he knows it but understanding his own irrational thoughts and being able to stop them are two very different things.

He strips off his shirt and starts the shower, trying to stop his hands from shaking too hard. He’ll head back to the red light district tomorrow and scope out the aftermath of his mistake. He hopes he’s done here.

Done in Iraq. Done in the middle east. Done with anything south of Greece. Done with any sort of heat, dry or humid.

The shower water is nothing more than an icy spray that soothes his persistent sunburn and makes goosebumps rise on his skin. He’s freezing and too hot and barely clinging to reality. Not-John is sitting on the bathroom counter, legs crossed at his knees.

“You need to start taking better care of yourself. You’re smarter than this.”

He knows he is. He knows he should have thought it through before he wandered into that room and messed everything up. He hasn’t even really caused that much damage, but it feels like it. It feels like he’s ruined everything. Shame and guilt and fear gnaw at his gut and he starts to feel sick. He presses his head onto the cold shower tiles and clenches his eyes shut as tightly as he can.

“You’ll do better next time. I know it.”

He won’t. He never will.

Sherlock Holmes is nothing if not a disappointment. That’s the way it’s always been.


	10. Blue Hydrangeas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ponders healing and realizes something he should have realized over a year ago. Mycroft thinks about how much he loves his little brother and his darling Detective Inspector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't think of any TW for this chapter that isn't in the tags but feel free to tell me differently in the comments.
> 
> Speaking of comments: I know I don't respond but I do see you guys and I read every single one. I'm just really awkward but your comments keep me going and I really love any and all feedback you guys give <3

John decides that after the incident with the chip cart that healing is a concept made up by therapists so they could get more patients. He’s never really going to get over Sherlock and that’s okay. He can handle that.

He can handle living with a ghost. He can handle missing the sound of violin playing at 3am and fingers in the toaster. He can handle the odd feeling in his chest when he sees himself in the mirror. He can handle the ever present boredom that begs him for a case.

He can handle seeing Sherlock in everything.

A sigh fills the quiet morning air as he walks towards the kitchen. He feels like an old widow who just lost her husband of 50 years.

In a way that’s kind of what he is. Sherlock gave him life when he came back from Afghanistan. Now he has to learn to live with the gaping hole in his chest. It’s not an impossible task; it doesn’t hurt too badly anymore.

It’s become less of a bloody wound and more of an achy scar. He’ll never be completely free from his grief. It marks his skin and burns when he moves too quickly. It makes his knee twinge with pain when he walks.

The ache is almost comforting now after all the time that has passed. Nearly two years now. One year and five months without Sherlock Holmes. 

April is lonely but not nearly as lonely as the last one. The memories feel more like a warm hug than an ice bath, and he’s starting to realize that maybe missing Sherlock isn’t a bad thing.

Maybe missing Sherlock is just something he has to do now like brushing his teeth and eating breakfast. It’s not fun but it’s necessary, a task to complete so that his day can go on.

He makes breakfast and brushes his teeth and mourns the death of his best friend all while the sun hides away. April is always so rainy. A constant reminder of the city he resides; Afghanistan is a world away now. His old life is a world away.

The desert sun can’t reach him here, the blood and gore and screaming. The running and fighting and laughter in cramped alleyways. His life before Sherlock and his life with him are nothing but memories now. That’s all he’ll ever have of that time. It’s a blessing and a curse and his knee aches as he pours himself a cup of tea.

He’s going to need caffeine to make it through this bleak and stormy day.

The sound of the rain hitting the windows soothes him as he works. Toast doesn’t require much effort but he’s tired from a long shift at the hospital and the white noise is comforting.

It’s not quite Sherlock’s playing but it’s nice.

It will have to do.

As he spreads butter on his toast, his mind wanders. Healing is never linear. As a doctor he knows this to be true. His healing — if it could even really be called healing — seems to be mapped out on a bell curve. He hits lows and then climbs slowly to a peak which doesn’t last before descending back to rock bottom.

He thinks distantly of how quickly he fell apart when he saw that man at the chip cart, hunched over with a change cup in front of him. How he stumbled and cried and vomited like a terrified child who’d just seen a ghost.

How it felt like even now as stood alone in his kitchen that he would never truly be rid of Sherlock’s lingering soul, moving through the windows and walls as he cooks his minimal breakfast.

His healing is less of a bell curve and more of a cliff. He climbs from the bottom up to a precipice and even the slightest wind knocks him back down to the ground, a quick and violent descent. A sickening fall. 

The butter knife makes a clanging sound as it hits the side of the sink. HIs toast tastes a little charred in his mouth, burnt around the edges. It’s the way Sherlock liked it, black on the edge and gold in the middle. It’s not really John’s cup of tea, but he’s learning to enjoy it. He can’t bring himself to change the setting on the toaster.

He isn’t quite sure why his brain is choosing to focus on such a small detail, but it’s not something he can change. An irrational thought cannot be changed with logic; it can only be worked around.

So he eats burnt toast and listens to the April rain and tries not to think about falling.

It’s not a bad way to spend his day. Not a bad way to spend his day at all.

He’s not at the peak of his mood, not even close, but he isn’t at rock bottom either. He’s halfway up the cliff side, resting easy on a ledge. He knows that getting to the top only means falling, so he takes his time climbing. Getting his hopes up only ever hurts in the end. 

He takes a deep breath, a shuddery little thing. His therapist says breathing techniques may help with his anxiety and bouts of anger. He’s not sure if it’s effective but it’s something to do. Another task in his new life without his best friend by his side. Burnt toast and breathing techniques. The things Sherlock left him with.

A laugh escapes him as he tries to inhale on the count of four. Such mundane things for such an absurd man.

Mundane is a good word to describe John’s life now.

He eats small breakfasts and goes to bed at a reasonable time. He meets up with friends — mostly just Greg — at least once a week and doesn’t spend the whole time drinking. He’s become an old man, a widow, in more ways than one.

Mundane isn’t bad. It’s just boring, but maybe he needs a little boring nowadays. He’s had enough action to last a lifetime. Far too much.

A nagging feeling tugs at his chest. 

_“Want to see some more?”_

Work calls eventually, dragging him away from the near silence of the living room. He pulls on a coat and traces his fingers over the collar of it. He flicks it up and hides a smile despite being alone, tucking his chin down and letting his eyes squint shut. He doesn’t have the cheekbones to pull off this look but he goes out anyway.

Sherlock isn’t alive to enjoy the simple things anymore, so John will do it in his place. John will be mundane because replacing Sherlock is impossible but remembering him isn’t. 

Rain is pouring down in buckets, covering the street in thin sheets of flowing water. Cabs splash water up onto the street and passing people struggle to keep their umbrellas up due to the wind. It’s a dreary day but John keeps moving. He has work to do, places to be, and people to help. People who tend to get on his nerves and often complain about the smallest of things, but people nonetheless. 

He climbs the cliff face and steps into Bart’s with a small smile on his face. Mary is there, but she won’t look at him. She seems a little ashamed but more than anything, she seems embarrassed.

John can’t find it in him to care. She never mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. He used her and while he regrets it, she was using him too. She wanted to fix him in the same way he wanted to fix himself. It was a sad transaction that would have never worked out and he knows that now. He knows that after what he’s lost he can’t just fill the hole in his chest. No filler can replace Sherlock and that’s okay.

He pauses outside his office and practices his breathing for a moment before stepping in to start his day.

He’ll have to be okay.

Toe cramps and common colds dominate the day. A few cases of the stomach bug and one man with a rather nasty cough but nothing huge. It’s a simple day at Bart’s and John tries not to feel too bored. 

This is his life now. He has to get used to it.

He doctors patients, ignores longing glances from Mary, and thinks about what he’s going to have for dinner. His life is filled with such tiny tasks now, but the routine is nice. It’s all he has. It still feels like a bit of a mask but at least he’s honest now, at least he isn’t breaking down the moment he’s alone. 

A new patient limps in with a rolled ankle and John greets them with a wide smile that’s only a little fake.

This is his life now.

By the end of the day he thinks he might just be at the peak, looking out over the edge into the cloudy sky. He knows better than to think it will last for very long, but he isn’t ready for the fall. He’s never ready for the fall.

He leans out over the edge and lets the winds blow past his face and for a moment — a stupid, iggnorant moment — he thinks he can stay like this. He thinks that the fall might not come for a while. He walks out of Bart’s and doesn’t even think about the invisible stain on the concrete nearby. He walks out of Bart’s and _trips._

His foot catches on a rock and he falls right over the edge of his metaphorical cliff and slams himself into the very real asphalt of the wet road.

A cyclist. No, that didn’t happen today. That happened in January. That happened over a year ago. Wet sidewalk caused this fall. Just a wet sidewalk. Nothing more; nothing less. No cyclist, no blood stain, no heart racing in his ears, no ringing.

No ringlet curls of dark brown hair, splayed across pale skin. No thick red splattered under glazed blue eyes.

It’s not that day. It’s not been that day for a long time.

Someone asks if he’s okay and he waves them off with a sickeningly fake smile.

He looks up at the ambulance bay nearby and lets the rain fall onto his face, long drips trailing down flushed pink cheeks. The cold seeps into his bones, but he shivers for a completely different reason.

A realization strikes and John’s whole body reels and it hits him that his life will never be truly mundane. Sherlock Holmes has never been simple. Sherlock Holmes has never just let things be simple.

He sees the ambulance workers everyday. Every Damn Day. Has since he started working at Bart’s years ago, since before his life got turned upside down. He has never, _never_ , seen the men who rolled Sherlock away that day. He has never seen the nurses who stood there by the sidewalk still in their fucking scrubs. He hasn’t seen any of them since that freezing day in January.

He never saw the body hit the pavement. 

The body that was laying on the coat. The casket that was closed.

Mycroft left early. Mycroft used the present tense. The man from the chip cart.

He _never_ saw the body hit the pavement.

Did blood even splatter like that? There wasn’t any under his face.

_“It’s all just a magic trick.”_

John hails and a cab and grits his teeth. That son of a bitch. That posh, idiotic, genius son of a bitch.

Mycroft answers his phone quickly, praying that his brother’s voice will greet him on the other end.

“Where is he?!” It’s a snarled shout. Mycroft quickly recognizes the voice of John Watson and his eyes go wide. Oh no. Oh god, oh no.

“I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Watson? Are you looking for Greg?”

“Cut the shit, Mycroft. Where the hell is Sherlock?”

Mycroft sighs. He wishes he knew. “I think this is something better discussed in person. 221b in about,” he checks his watch. “45 minutes?”

“Hurry.” Followed by a resounding click.

Well, this is going to be quite dreadful.

221b is freezing when Mycroft enters. The rain pounds against the windows as he sits his umbrella to the side. John is sitting on the couch. His fingers are curved into claws, digging into his thighs. It’s almost painful to look at.

Mycroft thinks for a moment that he’s about to be punched. Again.

“Where is he?” It’s almost a whisper, spit at the carpet with such… Disappointment? No, it’s more than that. It’s something that Mycroft can’t recognize despite years of training himself in the art of profiling. It’s something raw.

“I don’t know.”

John turns to him, eyes brimmed with red. He’s about the cry, but it isn’t sadness. No, he’s irate. He’s betrayed.

“Mycroft. I know he’s alive. Just…” He stutters and his fingernails dig even deeper into his upper leg. “Just tell me where he is.”

Mycroft moves forward, long and steady strides. It’s false confidence but it’s all he has. He can’t fall apart with John right there, desperate for some sort of support, but he also can’t lie. Not after all the man in front of him has been through.

So Mycroft tells the truth and tries not to show how much it stings.

“I really don’t know. We lost contact after Christmas.”

John stares up at him for a moment before looking back down at the carpet. He smooths his hands over his pants and takes a deep inhale. It’s shaky and uneven and Mycroft feels a small twinge of guilt.

“Why?”

The question is so little but so much at the same time and Mycroft can feel his guilt grow. How can explain this without making it worse? How can he explain why his brother was so ready to die for the man sitting there in front of him now?

“It was the only way to ensure your safety. For you to live Sherlock Holmes had to die.”

It hangs in the air for a while. The tapping sounds of the rain become the only noise. The silence somehow manages to still be deafening.

Mycroft feels an itch start under his skin as a tear rolls down John’s face. He’s so angry and Mycroft can’t do anything about it, can’t help the man who healed his little brother when he couldn’t.

He owes John Watson the world but he can’t provide anything to ease the pain of this increasingly wild situation.

“Will he come home?”

_Home_. 

It’s clear that John doesn’t mean 221b.

_Will he come back to me?_

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he does.” And it’s the truth. Mycroft has always done everything for Sherlock and it has become increasingly obvious over these past few years that John means everything to his little brother. Bringing him back to John will be the best thing Mycroft will ever do for Sherlock.

If he can even pull it off.

No amount of espionage and leg work has prepared him for this. He’s winging it and it’s terrifying. It’s absolutely terrifying.

“Just...Bring him back in one piece, alright?”

“Do you… Do you have something you’d like to tell him once I regain contact?” The if goes unsaid but John hears it.

“Just tell him to come home.” It is a whisper into the cold air, barely audible over the pouring rain. It’s shaky with rage and sadness and Mycroft feels it rattle something behind his ribs.

John Watson is free falling off a cliff he never wanted to climb, pushing a rock up a hill not because he wants to but because it’s all he has anymore.

Mycroft looks down at a lonely Sisyphus and nods. He knows what it’s like to live life one task to the next. He knows what it’s like to live for Sherlock Holmes. He knows what it’s like to lose him.

“Of course. Good night, Doctor Watson. I’ll try to contact you again soon.”

He doesn’t reply and Mycroft doesn’t wait for him to. The rain bounces off his umbrella as his town car pulls up to the sidewalk. His stomach turns and he grabs his cell. He has some calls to make. His brother can’t be off the grid. 

No one is unreachable when it comes to Mycroft Holmes.

It takes 2 weeks to get a vague idea of Sherlock’s location. It takes another week to figure out if he has access to a phone. It takes until May for Mycroft to catch Sherlock near a payphone. It takes less than a second for Sherlock to pick up.

“Brother,” 

Mycroft cuts him off. “John has asked for you to return home.”

Silence is his only answer. He watches on CCTV as Sherlock stalks away from the phone outside a hostel in Northern Poland, phone still hanging from the flimsy cord. He’s too skinny, hair shaggy and eyes sunken in.

Mycroft will get a burner phone to him, will demand he call more regularly, will drag his ass home by the end of this year if it is the last thing he ever does.

He won’t make John mourn twice. He won’t lose his brother again. 

Anthea peeks around the door to his office, a soft smile on her face. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is here to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Anthea. Please send him in.”

Greg waltzes in like he owns the place, all broad shoulders and kind eyes. He trails a calloused finger over Mycroft’s tense shoulder and frowns down at him like a disappointed mother. Mycroft just leans into the touch and lets his eyes slip shut.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to get through this, isn’t sure if he even can, but Greg is here now and that’s all he can ever ask for.

Guilt gnaws at his icy heart.

If John is even half as in love with his idiot brother as he is with Greg, Mycroft has no idea how he’s survived this long.

  
  



	11. Poppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock travels and carries with him the weight of John's knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: sexual assualt, murder, violence, lots of blood, references to trafficking, men being very gross, prostitution, injuries to a main character, vague self-harm. Careful with this chapter guys.
> 
> sorry for being gone so long. This chapter kept getting away from me and I couldn't quite find the words for it. I'm pretty sure that after this I'll be able to keep on schedule.

Sherlock can taste copper in the back of his throat, a sticky coating that he can’t seem to swallow. John knows.

_ John knows _ .

He spits, desperate to stop tasting blood. 

Poland in May is beautiful, flowers blooming along the roadside as he travels towards Slovakia. . Plush grass and warm weather make the trip easier on his body; he rests in hostels or on the side of the road when possible. He doesn’t sleep more than two hours a night. Nightmares haunt him, worse now since Mycroft’s call.

Red poppies and blood stains blur together behind his eyelids. 

He’ll have to go home soon, back to London, back to John. With blood on his hands. With scars marking every bad decision he’s made. With near constant pain from injuries that never got the chance to heal properly.

John asked for Sherlock to come home. John wants Sherlock Holmes back.

He’s not sure he can be that man anymore, the great detective, the friend John thought he knew.

The border between Poland and Slovakia won’t be a difficult cross. Slovakia isn’t a major tourist destination and only has a few passenger trains entering and leaving the country. The official crossing outside of Chyżne would take an hour to cross not including the time it’d take to find fake papers. 

He could probably just slip his way onto a train or even just hike through some woods to avoid paperwork all together. The Czarna Orawa river might make a good place to cross. The river flows into Slovakia and opens up into a lake across the border. He isn’t well versed in kayaking or even motor boat driving but he’s sure he’ll be able to figure it out.

He thinks about dark water and the way the cold water would cling to his skin. Maybe waiting for the paperwork would be better.

Once over the border he’ll need to move towards the eastern end of Slovakia. Košice, a city on the Hungarian border, will be a long walk but he’s sure he can hitchhike for some of it. He doesn’t have much of a reason to lay low here. He hasn’t heard any rumors of spiders crawling in the underground of Košice. It’s the first time in a long time he’ll be heading into a city without preparing to be shot at. It’d be a nice feeling if he wasn’t so afraid.

A dark cloud hangs over his head, the nagging feeling that something terrible is about to happen. He’s been feeling it since Mycroft called.

Well, he’s been feeling it since Kazakhstan but now it’s almost unbearable, overwhelming and suffocating. 

Sitting on the side of some gravel road outside of a tiny village in lesser Poland, he can’t escape that fact that John knows now, that he’ll have to go home eventually. He’d spent so long thinking about how nice it’d be to return home, to see John again, but now that he’s almost there he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He didn’t think this far ahead.

He didn’t really think he’d live this long.

He has to keep going now. He’ll figure something out along the way, find the words to explain this giant mess to John. But he has to keep moving so that he’ll even have the chance to say anything at all.

Košice, Slovakia is his next stop. A few miles and a long time to think. 

After Slovakia, he’ll head further south into Hungary. Hungary may take a few weeks but he’s sure he can handle it quickly before detouring into Croatia. The web there isn’t a big one but he doesn’t want to underestimate it; he’s learned his lesson on that front.

Bosnia is next and then a quick stop in Montenegro. Talk of a gambling ring as a cover for big time money laundering caught his attention. It sounds like just the type of thing Moriarty would have his fingers in. After that, Serbia, his final stop.

Six countries and probably as many months before he gets to go home.

Six months and what feels like a lifetime despite only being under two years, and he’ll be home.

He feels like he’s taken too many pills despite having run out three villages ago. He feels like he’s sipped too much vodka or watched a bullet ricochet a little too close. He feels like he’s standing in his own grave, shovel in hand.

The sun peeks over a low ridge in the distance, orange and pink bleeding into the dark sky. He needs to get moving, meandering south and praying for someone to forge him papers.

_ John has asked for you to return home. _

He has never denied John anything.

Getting across the border doesn’t go as planned; he isn’t surprised, not after everything he’s been through so far. He can’t get his hands on any fake papers, so going around the crossing is his only option. The river will take too long, the area around the border facility is mostly open field so being spotted is likely, so he’ll need to find someone willing to sneak him over.

Sherlock sighs. His polish is spotty at best but it’ll do. He stands outside a currency exchange outpost, looking dejected. The crossing is a small one, mostly trucks carrying exports and people just passing through. A family passes him with wide smiles and a look that can only be described as tourist-y. A tall man with sunken features and a tight lipped smile stands by the door. He shuffles his money from hand to hand; it’s not a lot.

The man’s shirt is ripped on the edge, dirty and worn. He’s obviously poor but that’s not uncommon in Eastern Europe. Times are often more tough than they are easy and Sherlock, a man whose life is built on a cornerstone of moral greyness, can’t help but see it as an opportunity. 

Sherlock has money and no way to cross. The man has little money and hands that betray him as a truck driver.

He walks over to the dirty man and grins. He gives a fake name and fumbles with his Polish  — playing up the tourist act. The man smiles back, teeth yellow and stained from a life of never having enough.

Sherlock flashes some cash and the man agrees to help him cross. His dirty hands shake and it becomes increasingly obvious that he’s never done something like this before. Sherlock gives him far more cash than necessary. It’s clear the man needs it more than he does. 

As they move towards the door, Sherlock catches a glimpse of himself in the window. The smile drops off his face.

A shark had looked back at him, blood stained teeth and gleaming eyes.

He walks a little faster, hands shaking as he clenches them into fists at his side. The man glances back at him, concerned, fatherly. Sherlock gives him a small toothless smile and forces his hands to unclench. 

The man shoots him a look that Sherlock can’t quite read and opens the back to his truck. Sherlock climbs inside and tries not to think about his reflection. Is that really who he’s become, a man closer to the predators he hunts than the hero the world thinks him to be?

Is that what John will see?

The wall of the truck is cold against his back as he settles down for the ride. The crates of machinery sway and creak as the truck drives over the rough gravel road. Sherlock sways with them, an easy movement that would be soothing in almost any other situation.

He pulls his coat tight around his frail body and lets his eyes slip shut for a moment. The man had said he’d drive Sherlock to Dolný Kubín a small town a few miles over the border. He’ll have to find his own way to  Košice, but for now all he has to do is sit back and rock alongside the steel part as they cross the border.

If someone had told him that his favorite parts of this mission would be the long, drawn out journeys, he would have called them crazy. Sherlock Holmes thrived on danger, on action. Sherlock Holmes would never be happy that he gets to sit in the back of a truck and rest his tired eyes. 

But Sherlock Holmes is dead.

So Steven Williams  — the stupid name he gave the driver — rocks back and forth with the swaying of the truck and tries not to think about how his friends buried him over a year ago. His eyes open and a sigh escapes his lips. He can’t sleep here, not when his body gets jolted by a rock under the tire every few minutes.

His reflection stares back at him, cobalt steel warping his face as he meets his own eyes. His fingers ghost over the metal, tracing his cheek. He’s got a scar there now. It’s barely there, fading away as the months go by. His eyes are a little sunken in now. The tip of his finger grazes the reflection of his eye bags, dark purple that almost makes him look like he has a black eye.

He presses his fingers to his real face, slightly pulling at the skin under his eye. His skin is so warm compared to his reflection’s. He traces his scar, letting his fingers drift over his cheekbones, and stares at himself in the shiny metal.

The truck jolts as it hits another rock and he lets his hand fall.

He doesn’t look like himself anymore. His hair is light brown and stick-straight from the amount of grease in it. His face is gaunt and ghostly, so pale he’s almost transparent. 

He looks as dead as he feels.

As dead as the world thinks he is.

How is he supposed to go home to John — his gorgeous John who thinks he’s alive — as a ghost?

He closes his eyes again and lets himself slump against the wall of the truck. He hasn’t cleaned up his mind palace in a long time. Mycroft and Molly have been coming out less and less like they’d given up on keeping him healthy. He slips away and tries to organize clues.

Moriarty’s voice laughs in the back of his head. He’d said he’d kill Sherlock Holmes and it seems he’s succeeded.

In a way, Moriarty won.

Sherlock isn’t sure what to do with the information so he tosses it out a window and turns towards his knowledge of languages. He never thought he’d use Slovak. He knows it’s similar to Polish mixed with some Czech.

So he practices, soft verbs murmured under his breath as he tries to remember certain words.

He can still taste blood in the back of his throat, stuck right next to the Slovak word for burn. The copper tang stings at his tongue and distracts him. He forces himself to swallow the bile rising in his throat and tries not to gag.

He’d like to say he isn’t sure when he got this bad, this broken, but he knows better. He knows that Mycroft would call this a danger night and he knows that it’s his 456th danger night in a row. He knows that if he opens his eyes, Moriarty will be sitting across from him, arms locked in a straight jacket. He knows his reflection will have shark teeth covered in blood.

The scar under his eyes hurts for a moment and it almost makes him laugh. A psychosomatic pain to remind him of what he’s left behind.

He wonders if John will heal him like Sherlock healed John all those years ago.

It doesn’t seem likely. Probability points to John being angry, of John hating him. Of fists against scarred cheeks. Of fire and brimstone waiting for him at what used to be his haven.

“Coooome on, Sherl. Don’t be such a bore,” Moriarty croons, sing-song and vile. “Give me a smile. Show me some teeth.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight and curls his lips around his teeth. He doesn’t want to see what he’s become, doesn’t want to admit that as each day passes he feels more and more like Moriarty. They were so similar, genius and apathetic.

There’s so much blood on his hands now, caked under his fingernails and stuck in the spirals of his fingerprints. It should feel worse. He should be more afraid of what he’s becoming but he’s not. He doesn’t really care about what he’s done or who he’s done it to. They don’t matter to him. But what will John think?

He’s a predator, all teeth and claws. He shoots first and asks questions later. He snorts coke and grins his shark smile at men who are only a little worse than him.

How is John supposed to see him as his best friend when Sherlock can’t even recognize himself anymore?

How is supposed to go home when the very thought feels like blasphemy?

He doesn’t want to darken the doorway of 221B. He doesn’t want to cast a shadow over a place that John fills with light.

“Poor little Sherlock. Doesn’t know how to make John love him back. How pathetic,” Moriarty spits and Sherlock recoils. The truck jolts, Moriarty laughs, and Sherlock wishes he could just go to sleep.

Slovakia is blissfully boring. The weather is chilly and the trek is mostly lonely. He takes the train occasionally but hitchhiking has become his savior. Car ride after car ride doesn’t allow much rest.

Sleeping in cars next to strangers on dirty back roads isn’t something he enjoys doing. Waking up one too many times with hands sliding down his body. Sometimes to steal his wallet. Sometimes for something he’d rather not think about.

A finger presses on the button of his filthy jeans, the metal pushes harshly into his lower abdomen. He rouses, eyes snapping open, and he gnashes his teeth. Sherlock snarls as the realization sets in. The man doesn’t get the chance to pull away, neither apologetic or ashamed. Sherlock grabs a pen from the cup holder, slender fingers wrapped tight around the plastic cylinder. The man opens his mouth to say something. His teeth are rotted black and his smile makes Sherlock’s stomach turn.

He slams the pen into the man’s jugular, effectively cutting him off. His dirty hands grasp at his neck, blood spewing between his fingers. 

Red sprays across the cab of the truck. The man gurgles, blood dripping down his throat and into his lungs. Sherlock’s long legs kick as he struggles to unbuckle his seat belt. He throws open his door, tumbling out onto the dirt road.

He hadn’t noticed they had parked, far too tired to pay attention to the movement of the truck. Dust flies into the air in clouds as he runs around the vehicle. He pulls the man out of the driver’s seat, trying not to notice his terrified eyes. Dragging the man across the road is a difficult task, arms shaky and body exhausted.

Blood bubbles past the man’s lips. His dripping hands grab at Sherlock’s wrist as he struggles to say conscious. Sherlock growls and shoves him into the ditch, mind scattered and jeans unbuttoned.

Sherlock drives himself to the next town, Poprad, eyes watering.

He isn’t crying.

He wipes at his face, hands sticky with drying blood. The red liquid smears over his cheeks, mixing with his tears.

The city is scenic and calm, nestled at the foot of the Tatras Mountains. Sherlock parks the car at one end of the city, trying his best to remain unseen. Night falls slowly, sinking Poprad into relative darkness.

He should find a hotel. His face is tacky and his clothes covered in dust and blood. He needs to clean up. Dirty fingerprints stain his jeans, marking the fabric just by his zipper. He needs to change clothes.

Most of the hotels are surprisingly nice. The mountains provide a nice tourist attraction to bring in revenue to what would otherwise be a small manufacturing town.

Sherlock drags his feet through the backstreets, trying to think of a plan. A small gas station catches his attention. It’s unassuming on the outside, no neon lights or flashy beer ads. The teenager behind the counter isn’t paying any attention to him when he walks in, eyes locked on a magazine.

The bathroom is freezing, air blowing through a vent over the sink. Sherlock shivers, goosebumps raising on his dirty skin.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Water drips from the tap into the stained basin. Red and brown mix as he washes away the grime from his face and hands. He wrinkles his nose, lips pressed into a thin line. The cheap soap reeks of chemicals. The fake cherry scent stings his nostrils but it does it’s job. Layer after layer of dirt and blood and god knows what else swirls down the drain.

He still feels dirty, a film of grossness covering him despite his best efforts at scrubbing everything away. He needs a shower. A nice hot shower.

The cashier gives him an annoyed look as he checks out, buying a few candy bars and a bottle of water. He pays the teenager no mind. Partially because he doesn’t care. Partially because his mind is distant, fuzzy around the edges.

His skull buzzes with radio static when he does finally find a cheap hotel room. He takes a long hot shower. The water turns his skin red, scalding him as he scrubs away the past few days.

The sheets are itchy against his bare skin, laying there naked as the day he was born.

He traces the sharp curves of his bruised body, fingernails catching at the points of his ribs. The duvet drapes softly over his hips. The smooth fabric is cool against his pink skin. He ghosts his finger over his sternum, pressing lightly above where his heart rests.

There’s a bruise just below his left collarbone. It’s a sick yellow with splotches of green and purple. He presses his pointer finger down into the center of it, letting the dull ache fill him,

He isn’t sure where the bruise came from. It could be from one of a million falls or fights.

He’s taken so many hits. Back hands, right hooks, and pistol whips. It could be from anything. It’s just one of many injuries he never got the chance to notice before.

Taking stock of his body isn’t something he’s really done before. He’s never really cared to. It’s just his transport, something to carry his brain from place to place. John always hated the way he was almost unaware of his own pain.

John must have hated a lot of things about him now that he thinks about it.

Sherlock can’t really blame him, but after all he’s put him through John still wants him to come home. John, oh his clever John, figured him out and asked Mycroft to bring him home. John found out his lie, his ultimate deceit, and still sought him out.

It should be heartwarming. It should make him feel elated. It should call to him like a sweet bird song, light cutting through the darkness of this mission.

It feels like stones in the bottom of his stomach, a festering wound in the muscle of his heart. He feels like his ribs have been cracked open and the flesh around them flayed. It aches and burns and stings like no other wound he’s suffered from.

He doesn’t know how to handle it. He’s never felt such emotional distress that it caused physical pain before.

So he lays on the itchy sheets and traces the scars on his stomach, harsh white lines cut into his once perfect skin. His tongue presses against the raw cuts on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t remember biting it, but he must have.

The copper taste comes back like nails in his mouth. Has he been chewing on his cheek this whole time, sinking his teeth into the flesh of his mouth? Has he been doing it since Mycroft’s call?

Mycroft’s call…

It feels like ages ago but also yesterday... What day is it?

He rolls over and stares at the tiny calendar on the bedside table. The man behind the front desk told him his check out date is the 25th. He paid for three days. The 22nd then. The 22nd of May.

497 days since he last saw his darling John.

Since the only blood on his hands was his own.

He pulls the duvet up over his chest and shivers. The moon shines through the window, casting long shadows over the room. It’s nothing like 221B.

He’s nothing like the man who once lived there.

Going home feels like a herculean task. He doesn’t want to see John as he is now, bruised and shaking with his cheek between his teeth. 

Rest comes in unstable bouts that leave him in a cold sweat with the duvet sliding off the bed. He never used to kick in his sleep but it’s a habit he’s picked up somewhere on his journey. The sheets crumple underneath him and his pillow has migrated down the bed. It’s a mess.

It doesn’t matter.

He’ll be gone in the morning, heading to  Košice and then to the border. There’s no reason for him to stay here, lounging on itchy sheets. He has webs to burn and spiders to crush beneath his boot.

Then maybe after all is said and done he can go home to his doctor. And he hopes beyond all hope that he will still be welcome when all is said and done.

Košice is nothing but a pit stop on his ride to Hungary. He gets some fake papers from a shady young woman in a long fur coat, mink fur, glistening white. The train will be the easiest part, a flash of papers and a convincing smile.

It’s simple. He’s done it a million times before.

Once he’s over the border is when his problems start up again. The Hungrian web is expecting him. They didn’t catch his false papers but they are on high alert, closing ranks before he gets the chance to get any real information.

Police corruption gives him some advantage. He’s got plenty of cash, sticky fingers and a warped sense of justice making picking pockets easy.

He’ll make do with what he’s got. He doesn’t really have another choice.

There’s a restaurant in Budapest’s 8th district that seems like a good place to start. After a crackdown on red light districts and prostitution as a whole, most working girls have retreated into less obvious places. The restaurant is flanked by a cheap by the hour hotel on one side and a dark alleyway on the other. It’s the perfect place for a prostitute to pick someone up without being caught.

It’s also a great place for Sherlock to begin his hunt.

In his experience, working girls are almost always followed by more violent criminals. Sometimes pimps who take advantage of girls and women. Sometimes drug dealers looking to sell to johns. Either way, Sherlock is sure he’ll be able to find some spiders in the women’s midst.

The restaurant is lit by small hanging bulbs dangling down from rustic wooden beams. Round tables are scattered around the main dining room. It’s almost nice, the calm scenery and chatting guests, but Sherlock is more observant than that. He can see past the sweet appearance and into the dark depth that hides here.

Back rooms just past the bathrooms catch his eyes. He watches as a tall woman in a satin dress tugs a man through one of the doors, lips curled up into a fake smile.

He’s definitely in the right place.

He takes a seat near the back in the room, crossing his legs as he sits. The rattan chair digs into his back as he shifts. A waiter approaches him with a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Sherlock smiles back, wide and touristy. The waiter’s expression changes when he sees Sherlock’s wallet sitting on the table.

A stack of forint bills, 20,000ft a piece, stick out from the worn leather. The waiter grins and quirks his brow, gesturing to the wallet with his head.

Sherlock gives him his best shark tooth smile and tilts his head towards the back rooms. The waiter gives him a knowing nod and walks back towards the kitchen. Sherlock hopes whatever girl the waiter brings out is willing to give him information. He knows cash can get him a long way but fear is a much more vicious motivator. Pimps tend to have a tight leash on their girls, one Sherlock isn’t sure he can get around with money,

A young woman catches his eye from across the dining room. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, long legs accentuated by heels she clearly doesn’t know how to walk in. Her hair is in loose curls like she curled it earlier but slowly brushed them out as the night went on.

She’s a bit messy. Not in a very obvious way but Sherlock can see it. Her makeup is done and her dress fits her perfectly, clinging to her body and shimmering under the dim lights. It’s a pretty good cover except her lipstick is smudged ever so slightly, losing opaqueness around the edges. Her hair is also losing volume like the hair spray is wearing off and her dress is wrinkled around her waist, riding up and revealing the edges of bruises on her knees.

Her heels click against the wooden floors. Clack, clack, clack as she wobbles towards his table. He’s afraid for a moment that she might roll her ankle.

“Szia drágám.”  _ Hello darling. _ Her voice is sickly sweet, falsetto to the point of annoying. It’s a little raspy in a way he’s only ever heard from Sally Donavan when she reeks of Anderson’s deodorant.

He decides to play up the tourist act. “Uh… Do you speak english?”

She gives him a poorly masked condescending look, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. He just smiles dumbly up at her. He can’t blame her for her bad mood, not when it’s clear this has been a very long night for her.

“Yes, I speak english, darling.”

Sherlock chuckles and leans back in his chair, letting his legs spread to take up more space. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Her lip curls up in disgust and she leans away from him. The waiter starts walking their way with two glasses of red wine. Her eyes widen when she notices him and Sherlock would bet all the money he has that her heart rate just spiked.

She’s afraid.

The waiter places the wine on the table and gestures for her to sit down, hand waving almost violently. She sits down daintily. She keeps her eyes on the floor and her hands crossed in front of her.

She doesn’t touch the wine. Sherlock doesn’t either.

It takes all of 15 minutes for her to ask him to follow her down the hall. She grins at him coyly, completely unaware of the lipstick on her teeth.

He stands and lets her lead him to a backroom. The soft sounds of muffled sex come from some of the closed doors. He suppresses a gag. She does too.

There’s a fold-out couch in the center of the room. Sherlock squints as he walks in. The bright fluorescent lights reflect the hot pink walls. It’s oddly well lit compared to the actual restaurant. It doesn’t do the room any favors.

Stain litter the couch and make Sherlock’s stomach turn. It’s disgusting.

The girl flops back on to the gross couch, dress sliding up her thighs. She’s boney, underweight in a way he recognizes from his own body. She drags her hand up her leg and leans her head back. Her tongue slips between her lips and Sherlock tries not to shudder.

“What’s your name?”

She jolts upright. “What?”

He sits on the edge of the couch and tries to look as harmless as possible. “What’s your name?’

“Alida.” She shys away from him, head tucked down and hand toying with the hem of her dress. Her fingers are slender and her nails are painted a bright red. The paint is chipped around the tips. His mind conjures up a picture of Irene.

He might just give her a call.

“Graceful. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” It’s a cheesy line but she smiles. 

“What do you want?”

Sherlock sighs and leans back on his hands. He grimaces as his hand touches a place on the couch that can only be described as crunchy.

“Information. I’m looking for a man from here. Probably not a pimp but your pimp is definitely afraid of him. He probably deals in getting girls across the border.”

She moves away from him, crawling backwards on the couch. Her eyes go wide and Sherlock recognizes the fear in her face. It used to make him feel guilty  — he thinks about Vanessa and San Fernando. Now it’s just something he has to deal with, fear directed at him. Fear that he’s the type of man he’s hunting.

“Are you…” She stutters, trying to find the word. “Egy rendőr?”

“No, I’m not with the police.”

She keeps moving back, pinning herself to the back of the couch. She pulls her knees to her chest like a scared child. Not like. She  _ is _ a scared child, barely over 18. Sherlock stays back, keeps his body language calm and open.

He doesn’t want her to be afraid. He wants her help.

“You said you said you didn’t know Hugarian!”

“No… I asked if you spoke English.” He sighs. “I’m not here to hurt you or lock you up. I just need information.’

She calms a little, boney hands still shaking as she smoothes out her dress. “You said my uh pimp might be afraid of this man?”

He gives her an encouraging nod. 

“The only man that scares Jozsef is Elek.”

“Where can I find Elek?”

She pauses and gives him a small look that screams fear. She’s asking for protection, for him to provide her with some sort of safety.

“Look. I can get you out of here, get you someplace safe, but I need this info.”

“Elek works in the hotel next door on the top floor. He takes girls there to… break them in. There’s a party there tonight. All the girls are supposed to be there. I could get you in.”

“How?”

Alida shifts so she’s sitting next to him. She leans into his shoulder but keeps her head tilted down.

“There’s a password for every party. Tonight’s is vakmerő. It means,”

Sherlock interrupts her. “Daredevil.”

“Yes. I’ll be there. I can show you Elek, but I want you to help the other girls too.”

“I’ll try. I’ve got a friend who’s really good in situations like these.”

Alida pauses, nervous. “ A friend?”

Sherlock understands almost immediately. She’s afraid of being tricked. “Yes, I have a friend named Irene. She’ll help you get out, help you get free.”

She nods and stands up. “I’ll need payment to show Jozsef for our time. 10,000ft.”

Sherlock passes her the cash and stands. She stares down at the bill before stuffing it into her bra. “I’ll meet you tonight?”

Alida nods and walks out the room, still wobbling on her feet. She really should take off those heels.

Sherlock waits in the lobby of the hotel for Alida to arrive for around an hour. She never said when the party would begin, but she waltzes in wearing flats around 11pm. She’s far more steady on her feet, long legs taking easy strides as she enters the lobby.

She’s alone. The waiter from earlier, who he assumes is Jozsef, is nowhere to be seen. She’s wearing a new dress. It’s a silver silk fabric and her neck is draped in pearls.

All the flashiness does little to hide the bruising above her collarbone. Concealer can only do so much. The iridescent pearls sit starkly against the sickly purple of her neck, the concealer slowly rubbing away as she moves.

“You ready, Mr…?”

He blanks for a moment. He hadn’t really thought about his new alias. He answers without thinking. “Watson.”

“Well, Mr. Watson. Let’s find Elek.” She grabs his hand and leads him to the elevator. Sherlock tries to keep himself in the moment, focusing on the way her fingers feel between his own. She presses the button for the top floor, nails repainted the bright red from earlier.

_ Mr. Watson. _

John’s waiting for him back home. Maybe he’s angry. Maybe he’s sad. Sherlock doesn’t know and he can’t figure out no matter how hard he tries. John’s emotions have often been a mystery to him but now he can’t even begin to understand. John wants him home.

He wants to go home.

The elevator door opens and Alida tugs him out into the hall. He can hear the party through the door. Loud music and drunken shouting pours out into the hallway. Alida pulls him close, sliding her arm around his waist.

A tall man stands outside the door wearing a dark coat. There’s a gun on his hip, barely covered by the thick fabric.

Alida grins and it’s clear she knows the guy. She chats loudly, a far cry from the shy girl he sat with just an hour ago. The man smiles at her and Sherlock’s wants to knock the grin off his face. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off her chest, skating right past the pearls and right into the deep v of the dress’s neckline.

“Tudod, hogy meg kell kérdeznem”  _ You know I have to ask.  _ Even his voice is sleazy, dripping with desire.

“Vakmerő.” Sherlock cuts in, voice clipped and annoyed.

The man glares at him but Sherlock just smiles, shark-toothed and vicious. He’s been at this far too long to be intimidated. He knows at the end of the day he’s the most dangerous man in this building.

He’d be the most dangerous man in 221B.

The door swings open and reveals the party taking place. The suit is huge. Sherlock can see the balcony from the entryway. It’s got a large pool built in and a bar set up with several people milling around sipping from glasses with small umbrellas.

Women walk around in a variety of skimpy clothing. Bikinis, dresses, mini skirts. It’s clear that the women here are only welcome if they’re willing to show off their assets. Sherlock holds back a sneer. Irene would tear this place to shreds. The mistress of weaponized sexuality, of using being underestimated to her advantage.

He needs to give her a call.

“Elek is over there on the couch.” She nods her head to the side, leaning a little too heavily into his side.

Sherlock turns to see the man in question. Elek is laid back on the couch, a blonde on either side of him. The girls can’t be a day over 18, tanned skin and makeup doing nothing to hide their age. They’re wearing matching velvet dresses, barely touching their mid thigh. Their knees are bruised and the bags under their eyes make Sherlock feel exhausted.

He knows that this mission won’t make him feel any guilt. It’d scare him if he didn’t hate the bastard so much. Not with the way he’s looking at those girls, trailing his hands up their thighs. No, Sherlock won’t feel bad about this one at all.

Alida leads him over towards the couch. She seems much more confident now, walking steady without heels, but she’s squeezing his hand so tight it almost hurts.

He’s sure her nails are going to leave crescent marks in his skin, but he doesn’t pull away.

Elek glances up when Alida walks over, looking her up and down. The blonde girls take advantage of his lapse in attention and lean away from him, one tugging down the hem of her dress.

“Miss Alida. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Elek.” She croons, fluttering her eyelashes. “This is my friend Mr. Watson. He’d like to discuss some  _ business _ with you.”

Elek smiles like he smells blood in the water. Sherlock doesn’t mind playing bait, not if it means he gets to play the shark later on. He returns the smile and resists the urge to lick his teeth. “Oh really? What kind of business are you interested in?”

“Say about 8 girls and transport across the border into Croatia.”

“That will run you quite a lot of money, Mr. Watson. Are you sure you can afford it?” His voice is thick with doubt, patronizing and dismissive.

Sherlock flashes a stack of cash, smiling the whole time. “I’m sure I can manage. Just one thing: one of the eight girls has to be Alida. I’ve developed quite a taste for her company.”

Alida flushes pink, ducking her head to hide behind her hair. Elek nods knowingly. Sherlock holds back a snarl. He doesn’t like this role. He knows it will get him where he needs to go but he doesn’t like sullying John’s name like this. He doesn’t like making it relatable to a man like Elek.

“I understand. I’ll get the girls to the border in a private car. Half payment now. Half payment then. Give me three days.”

Sherlock nods. “How much?”

“2,364,400ft.”

Elek says it like it’s supposed to be shocking, like it might make Sherlock change his mind. Hungary’s economy hasn’t been doing very well. The forint isn’t worth very much. The total only comes out to about 6000 euro.

That’s what 8 girls are worth to Elek. 6000 euro.

Sherlock tosses him half the cash swiftly and takes delight in the shock on the man’s face. “Here’s the first half. I’m staying at the Palazzo Zichy. Room 76. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

He turns to leave, not willing to play this part much longer. Alida follows. She grasps childishly at the sleeve of his coat in an attempt to slow him down.

“Where are we going?”

“Can you come to my room? Will Jozsef miss you?” He asks, not breaking his stride.

“No, not as long as I have some money to show for it.” 

He nods and heads out the door. Alida follows him, looking a little more than confused. He waits till they’re in a cab before he explains his plan.

“First, I need to get a burner phone to call my friend. I’ll talk to her and then wait till Elek is ready for the border cross. You’ll meet Irene across the border and I’ll handle Elek before crossing myself.”

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Her voice is soft but stern. She doesn’t seem afraid or shocked. She almost sounds determined.

He doesn’t respond. It’s all the answer she needs.

Sherlock grabs a burner phone at a corner store before taking Alida to the hotel. He didn’t need to bring her along for this but she looks like she needs a good meal and some rest. Room service isn’t known for its nutritional value but it’ll do.

She lays on the bed once they arrive, shoes sitting by the door and necklace on the bedside table. Sherlock lets her make herself at home while he dials Irene. He eats a bit of room service while he waits for her to pick up. He taps his foot nervously.

God, he hopes she hasn’t changed her number.

“Hellooo~.” Her voice is sing-songy and flirtatious. He’s never been happier to hear her voice.

“Irene. It’s me.”

He hears her take a deep breath, a tiny gasp. “Sherl, my darling. What do you need?”

“I need you to be in Croatia in three days for a rescue. 8 girls.”

“That’s not a lot of notice but for you I’ll make it happen,” She pauses for a moment, clicking her tongue. “I assume you'll handle whoever is keeping them.”

He nods for a moment before verbally responding. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ll see you in three days, Lock.”

She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before hanging up. He smiles silently before tossing the phone towards Alida. She tilts her head at him questioningly, mouth stuffed full of chips.

“Once you get to Croatia, redial the last called number. She’s the one who will help you.”

Alida swallows her food in one big gulp. “Why don’t you just call her when we get there?”

“You’re going to go ahead of me while I handle Elek. I need you to be able to find Irene quickly. I’ll find you all afterwards.”

She nods and goes back to eating. Sherlock’s sure if he was a better man, that it would be heartwarming to see her finally get to eat. It just makes him angry. It makes him want to do terrible things to Jozsef and Elek and every man who ever wronged her.

He doesn’t want to think like that. Maybe for her sake. Maybe for John’s.

“Mr. Watson?”

He sits on the corner of the bed and grabs some of her chips. “Yes, Alida.”

“What’s your first name?”

He thinks about lying for a moment. He almost says a random name. He almost says John. He decides against both.“Sherlock. My name is Sherlock.”

She stuffs a few more chips in her mouth and smiles in a way that would be gross if she was someone else.

“Sherlock Watson. That’s a pretty good name.”

His stomach flips and he finds that he’s no longer hungry. “Yeah… I guess it is.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Baby's Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John regrets what he wishes for and Sherlock tries his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: I can't think of anything that isn't in the tags/a previous chapter. You guys know how this fic usual goes so tread lightly.

Weeks go by without any word from Mycroft. John stands on the edge of giving up on ever getting a call. Sherlock left on his own free will. It’s his choice if he ever wants to come home.

It hurts a little to think that Sherlock would choose to stay away but John tries to understand, tries not to let his emotions control him. He’s lived this long without Sherlock. He can keep living now even if the pain hasn’t quite subsided. Sherlock is alive and that’s all that matters.

Or that’s what John keeps telling himself.

He makes himself some tea. The morning sun shines through the yellow curtains and John lets himself bask in it for a moment. It’s not quite warm but it’s better than the chill he’s been feeling for almost two years now. He steeps his tea and lets his eyes slip shut. 

Maybe now he can finally start to feel warm again. It won’t be the same without Sherlock, but it’s something.

It has to be something.

A knock at the door pulls him away from the window, breaking his reverie. He stretches like a sleepy house cat and quirks his brow.

Mrs. Hudson hasn’t visited him in a while but she does pop up from time to time. John has been trying to reconnect with her after months of pulling away, but she’s still a little distant. She doesn’t want to get her hopes up in case he decides to disappear back into his shell again. He can’t really blame her.

He isn’t sure if even trusts himself not to isolate again.

The tea warms his hands as he walks to the door. He wobbles a little without his cane but it’s been getting better — his knee that is. His joints are always a little achy. He’d blame the cold if he wasn’t so sure it was all in his head.

Another knock echoes through the flat, loud and persistent. John huffs under his breath. He doesn’t remember locking the door. Mrs. Hudson must have something to give him.

Probably some biscuits or pastries. He swears she’s trying to fatten him up.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He swings open the door, ready to see Mrs. Hudson’s grinning face. She isn’t on the other side. The mug shatters at his feet as he mouth falls open. Tea splatters across the floor and his bare feet. It scalds his skin and seeps into the hardwood.

Sky blue eyes stare into his soul.

John ignores the pain in his feet and instead grabs Sherlock’s lapels, pulling him into his chest. He wraps his arms around the smaller man and chokes back sobs.

He’s here.

He’s  _ home _ .

Sherlock’s arms lay limp at his side, fingernails stained a dirty yellow. He seems too bony, almost skeletal. He’s feather light in John’s arms. Frail and shaking.

“Sherlock.” It’s no more than a gasp, a soft prayer into the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder.

He doesn’t get a response. Sherlock doesn’t even move, stock still in his arms. John’s heartbeat starts to speed up. Dread and worry sink in his stomach like a stone. Sherlock’s isn’t moving at all. He isn’t tense. No, he’s almost limp, paper thin and pale.

“Sherlock?”

John pulls back, keeping his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. A chill runs down his spine and the stone in his stomach drops.

He can’t feel the tea on his feet anymore or the warmth from the morning sun. The room becomes frigid. He’s sure if he exhales hard enough he’ll be able to see his own breath.

Sherlock’s eyes are glazed over, a sickening milky blue. Tears roll down his cheeks, leaving tracks on his sharp cheekbones. He looks like a ghost. Eyes sunken in and distant. Deep purple surrounds his eyes almost like he’s been punched.

His hair is damp, flattening against his head.

John reaches up, shaking like leaf, and runs his fingers through the dark curls. Sherlock doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink.

His hand comes away bright red, dripping blood onto Sherlock clothes. The red seeps into everything around them. It trickles down Sherlock’s face and mixes with the tears, pouring down his cheekbones and neck.

John jerks away, blinking back tears. He stumbles, feet catching on air, and falls. The ground is hard underneath him, solid and icy. He can’t get the blood off. There’s nowhere to wipe the blood off.

Sherlock grins down at him, teeth yellow and crooked. He shifts and John can hear the bones crack as he offers a skeletal hand.

His skin is almost transparent. John can see the veins through his sheet white skin. It’s pulled tight around his bones like he hasn’t eaten in months. Sherlock cocks his neck to the side and John gags when he hears it snap.

The pop echoes through the room like a gunshot. Sherlock just smiles.

“Why would I want to come home to the man that killed me?”

His voice is patronizing, mean and venomous. It hits John right between his ribs and knocks all the air out of him. Sherlock pulls his hand back, joints cracking with the movement.

“Goodbye, John.”

He stretches his arms out by his sides and falls backwards. The floor is dark… No, the floor is gone and Sherlock is falling.

John  _ is _ falling.

Waking up from a nightmare in movies is always so dramatic, jolting upright in bed and panting like the main character just ran a marathon. John knows it’s not like that in real life. He’s had a number of nightmares during his time in Afghanistan, sweat sticking to his skin as the heat and sand suffocated him.

He doesn’t jolt up or cry out or even open his eyes. He just knows he’s awake, surrounded by the darkness of the room. He isn’t falling. It’s nothing dramatic. It’s nothing hard.

He knows that waking up is the easiest part.

Sweat soaks the sheets underneath him and his breath comes out in sharp huffs. He doesn’t open his eyes for a long time, trying to catch his breath. His heart pounds in his ears, jackrabbiting throughout his body. The duvet lays discarded in the floor and the chilly air causes goosebumps to raise on his skin.

He knows it will be awhile before he calms down properly.

It feels like his lungs are full of water but he can’t find the energy to sit up and breathe better. Every minute twitch exhausts him and his muscles won’t stop tensing as he shakes.

Everything hurts, a distant ache that he barely notices under the sheen of sweat that drapes him.

He’ll need to shower and change the sheets later. Once he’s caught his breath…

He realizes belatedly that he’s crying. He didn’t notice the wetness due to the amount of sweat still rolling off him, but he can feel it now. Salty tears roll down his cheeks, small since his eyes are still clenched shut. He knows when he opens them, the dam will break loose.

It’s hard to catch your breath when you’re sobbing. He knows this from experience.

The cold slowly starts to become too much for him and he has to pick the duvet up off the floor. He slowly opens his eyes, vision blurry with tears. His breath keeps catching in his throat and he can’t stop seeing that milky blue.

It’s just as annoying as it is terrifying.

John is a rational man. He isn’t a genius like Sherlock or Mycroft, but he isn’t stupid. He knows his brain is playing tricks on him, that he’s safe, and that Sherlock is alive. A rational man faced with an irrational psychological response. It’s the most annoying thing in the world.

He’s fine. He knows he’s fine But his brain just refuses to  _ stop _ .

White knuckled and bleary eyed, he grabs the duvet and drags it back onto the bed. He’s got some blankets down by the foot that would probably help him stay warm but he’s so tired and his chest feels so heavy.

He sinks into the sheets and tries not to shiver. He hates this.

He  _ hates _ this.

The cold is persistent and his breath is always just out of reach and he wishes the bastard would just fucking call.

One call. One call after two years of friendship. After all the cases. All the dinners. All the late nights. All the touches and the laughter and the fights. Once call is all John needs after mourning and trauma and heart ache.

You’d think Sherlock could give him that. After everything he’s been through.

One fucking call.

The phone rings like God thought it’d be a fun trick to play on an already broken man. It feels like a buck knife to the sternum, a deep slash to his tender and heaving chest. The ringtone is shrill and John’s ears aches with it.

It feels like tinnitus, and all John wants to do is go back to sleep. He rolls over and shoves his head under the pillow, hands clasped over his ears.

He knows it’s not Sherlock. And if he had to guess, it’s probably Greg, which is the worst. He doesn’t want to hear from him now. Not after Greg lied to him for so long, watched him mourn and sob and lose his mind, without saying a single thing.

Mycroft’s deceit didn’t matter; it’s irrelevant. He never trusted the man very much, didn’t talk to him outside of casual politeness when the time called for it. But Greg is his friend. Greg was a drinking buddy. He thought Greg was suffering the same loss he was, mourning a life without Sherlock Holmes in it, but he knew.

Greg knew and didn’t say a word.

And John knows — deep, deep down — that it isn’t really Greg’s fault. It isn’t rational to blame Greg for Sherlock’s lie, but he does. He’ll forgive him eventually, but right now he’s not ready to hear the man’s voice.

He hears his voicemail pick it up and shudders a sigh. 

He’s finally stopping crying but his sheets are still soaked with sweat. It’s gross but he’s so tired it barely matters. His breaths are getting deeper and deeper and his heart is slowing down to a more reasonable pace.

Sleep is a scary concept. He doesn’t want to see Sherlock  _ like that _ ever again, but he’s smart enough to know that he needs to rest.

So he tries to sleep and ignores the stickiness that clings to his skin.

He rouses around noon, still tired and shaky but not as exhausted as he was earlier. The sun peeks through the window and shines throughout Sherlock’s bedroom. 

John’s pretty sure that sleeping here is weird now that he knows Sherlock is alive — he also knows it was probably weird before he knew but he doesn’t really care. It’s more comfortable and he’s practically taken over the room. It’s been his for almost two years now, and he doesn’t really want to change that.

If Sherlock has a problem with it —if he even comes home— that’s a bridge they’ll cross when they get to it.

If the bridge hasn’t already burnt to the ground.

He rolls over, thrashing slightly in the sheets. He thinks distantly about making himself some tea. He remembers the burning on his feet, the shattering of glass. He gags and decides against it.

Toast and water will have to do.

He burns the toast, only partially on purpose. His mind is a bit foggy and he can’t stop yawning. He brings his hand to his face as he yawns once more, bottom jaw shaking. He’s still tired, but he has to get up eventually.

Laying in bed all day isn’t an option. Not if he wants to feel better.

He drinks his water and eats his burnt toast and lounges on the couch lazily. It’s better than laying in bed all day but only by a little. He doesn’t have the energy to do much else.

His phone rings from the bedroom, the shrill sound cutting through the flat’s walls. John groans and curses under his breath. The newscaster on the tellie yammers on about rain moving in later in the evening and John almost gives up.

The bed calls his name and he almost answers before deciding to just flip the channel. Reality TV isn’t really his thing most days but it’ll do for now.

He’ll check his messages later. Might even find the energy to change his sheets. It’s unlikely but he tries to be optimistic. It doesn’t work very well but dammit he’s felt so bad for so long. He just wants to be alright even if it’s just for a few hours.

His phone rings again and John decides that today is probably not the day he’ll feel better.

John limps back into his bedroom with a sigh. This better be important, or at least an apology. His phone is buzzing on the bedside table, almost vibrating off the edge. John snatches it up and answers.

“What?”

There’s a beat of silence followed by a shaky breath through the receiver.

“Hello, John.”

The stones sink in John’s stomach again, weighing him down. He wants to vomit. Spit the rocks out and never have to feel so heavy again.

“Don’t do this to me.” It’s a quiet plea, a prayer to an unforgiving god.

Silence rests between them and it’s louder than anything John has ever heard. IEDs, gunfire, and screaming. None of it compares to this. Two words after almost two years of silence and it’s almost too much.

“John, I’m sorry.”

It’s too much but it’s exactly what John had asked for. One call. It’s what he thought he’d wanted.

“Just...Just come home soon, yeah?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and John starts to cry. He thought it couldn’t get worse. He thought the fall had been the worst day of his life but this beats it. It pummels it into the fucking ground and leaves John breathless.

“I don’t know if that's going to happen, but I’ll try, John.”

It’s not enough for John but it’s going to have to be. The line disconnects and John falls back into bed, sobbing, His chest heaves and milky blue fills his vision and bile rises in the back of his throat.

_ I’ll try _ .

Almost two years and all he gets is an “I’ll try.”

It should piss him off. He should rip this place to shred and toss the violin out the window and break every beaker he can get his hands on. Two years of friendship and he can’t even get a promise.

He should burn this stupid flat to the ground with all the memories in it. Fuck Mycroft’s money. Fuck Sherlock’s things. Fuck this bedroom and all the love he felt here. It’s nothing now. It doesn’t mean a damn thing because Sherlock’s not home.

Sherlock isn’t sure he’ll ever come home.

It should piss him off but it just makes him sad. He wants more but he knows he’ll never get because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

He was always good like that. He wasn’t a very nice man but he was always so kind. He always kept his word in one way or another.

Sherlock may never come home and John thought he could handle that. He handled it for almost two years but somehow it’s worse now. Somehow it feels like a herculean task. He’s missed out on so much time with Sherlock that he might never get back.

He misses the ignorance.

He misses the mourning.

Because right now his head is so full and he can’t stop crying and he misses his best friend more than anything else in this world.

John Watson would do anything to bring Sherlock home, but he can’t.

Sherlock hadn’t asked for his help. Maybe for a good reason or maybe due to mistrust or maybe because he's an idiot. 

Sherlock hadn’t let John follow and god knows John would have followed him anywhere.

To the ends of the earth. To that ledge on Bart’s roof. To wherever the hell Sherlock is now. Even back to that hellhole in Afghanistan. Without question. Without complaint. John would have grabbed his gun and gone because that’s where Sherlock would be. And wherever Sherlock is adventure always follows.

John isn’t sure which he loves more — yes he does and it hurts deep in his chest.

_ He loved you, John.  _

Mycroft’s voice fills his head and he wishes he could cover his ears to block it out like he did with the ringtone. No he didn’t. Not the way John wants him to.

Not the way he needs.

_ I’ll try _ .

Sherlock isn’t a man who deals in halves. He does things with everything in him, all or nothing. Sherlock doesn’t try. Sherlock does. Sherlock either is or he isn’t. There is never any inbetween, no grey area.

I’ll try means I might not make it. I’ll try means not right now. I’ll try is the worst answer he could have given because it means Sherlock doesn’t know.

John cannot think of anything more terrifying than Sherlock not knowing.

He rolls over in the bed and lets the tears slide off his face, and for the first time since he was a little boy wrapped up in his covers listening to his father scream in a drunken rage, John prays. Not to god or another deity. No, John prays to one thing he’s always believed in.

John prays to Sherlock Holmes.

“Please come home to me. It’s not the same here without you. I’m not… I’m not sure what I’ll do if you die again. I can’t mourn you twice, Sherl. I just. I just can’t, so try for me. Try really hard for me, yeah?”

Almost 2,000 kilometers away, Sherlock Holmes cocks his gun and crosses the Serbian border in the back of a cargo truck. He’s going to do everything in his power to make it home to his John.

  
  
  
  
  



	13. Daffodil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock prays. No-one answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: torture, excessive injury, references to sexual assault, murder. read the tags and be careful.
> 
> Power outages, ice storms, and schools have all gone against me to keep this chapter from going up but here it is. One day late but here.

_ Please let him be safe. _

It’s a silent prayer from behind his eyelids, resting just above his brow, sitting in the part of his brain that thought love was just a chemical defect. Because love can only be something to be ashamed of, to hate because it means you’re weak. Love means losing. Something, someone, every little thing in between. Love means tossing it all aside for just one person, one pathetically fragile human being.

Blood is pooling on the floor, the cold concrete beneath his broken body. It feels like a memory, a long lost dream from years and years ago.

Almost two years.

Maybe a lifetime.

It’s a silent prayer. A prayer of going nowhere. A prayer of dying with the words left unsaid kept tucked right behind his tongue, perched in the back of his throat begging to be let out. 

God isn’t listening. He’s got his fingers in his ears and his eyes turned far, far away from the pool of blood and Sherlock’s twisted body. The prayer is going nowhere. It’s not even leaving the room, not pressing past his lips and into the cold air of whatever hell he’s in.

He thinks he’s probably dying. Blood loss and broken bones and exhaustion mixing into a death row cocktail.

Pain blooms when he breathes, a flower in his deflated lungs. He can hear the fractured bones in his ribs grind together when he shifts. It sounds like sand between his teeth, like nights in Egypt and bombs in the distance.

This is probably what dying feels like.

But he’s not dead yet. Parts of him are rotting away but his heart keeps pumping blood to his floral lungs, and he’s sure that death would be a lot more peaceful than this. It would be a lot more empty.

The creak of a door pulls his mind away from his praying but he doesn’t look up. He knows what’s coming.

It’s always the same thing.

A boot to his ribs. Spit on his face. Blood pooling underneath his anemic body. Bones shattering and vision going black under the weight of a fist to his jaw. Sometimes it’s a drill to his knees, a low buzz that makes his stomach flip. Sometimes it’s a taser to the back of his neck, to his thighs, to the hand shaped bruises on his hips.

Tonight  — he can only assume it’s night — it’s just punches. Skin on skin contact. The man is speaking, a gruff and ugly sound. Guttural serbian spews from his cracked lips as he demands Sherlock reveal his identity.

Sherlock doesn’t say a word, lips pressed in a tight line of defiance. Eyes glazed over and nose dripping blood.

The puddle on the floor ripples, a tiny pond that he’s drowning in. It fills his lungs and suffocates the blooms which grow there. It presses down into his torn guts and rises in the back of his ripped-raw throat.

_ Let him lay his head on my chest. Let him hear my heart.  _

He thinks about home. Not 221b. No, that would be too easy. Too simple for such a great mind. No, Sherlock thinks about John.

He thinks about soft smiles and grey jumpers and calloused hands. The smell of gunpowder drifts through the air of his mind palace. A broken window. Pills on the table. A dead cabbie. His beautiful John.

Nothing is more beautiful than his daring John, fingers wrapped around the trigger of a pistol, eyes sharp with adrenaline. 

_ Let him know it beats only for him. _

Sherlock ignores the swelling pain, the crescendo of broken bones and bruises. He’s pretty sure there’s a hematoma somewhere. A pocket of blood just under his skin. A bubble somewhere inside him waiting to burst.

Knuckles break the skin of his stomach. 

He thinks the bubble just popped.

He isn’t sure when things got this bad. He isn’t even sure if he knows how he got here. Everything has blurred together in his mind, a thick fog of conflicting information and bullet holes in the walls. His mind palace is in shambles.

It might have started that night at the pool. The first time he ever laid eyes on James Moriarty. It might have started when he first met John. Maybe after their first case. Maybe when Mycroft told him he’d never be like other children. Maybe it started the first time he ever made his mother cry.

Maybe it all went wrong in Croatia. Maybe that’s what put him here.

He watched the girls crossover, hand in hand shaking like leaves in the wind. Irene was waiting for them on the other side. Just over the border. She was wearing a tight black dress, her neck draped in pearls and her eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Elek was there with his shark teeth bared. He put his hand out for the money, eyes sharp and proud. He enjoyed his job. He liked watching girls go and money come in because they were commodities to him. To be traded away or sold to the highest bidder. Sherlock bared his teeth back. If Elek was a sand shark, Sherlock Holmes is a great white

He put a bullet in Elek’s chest, stole his wallet, and slipped over the border. He doesn’t see Irene or the girls again. He doesn’t need to.

Maybe that’s why he’s here. One too many bullets in dangerous men. Too much attention on his leaving Hungary. The Serbian’s must have noticed. He must have caught their eye.

Maybe Sherlock is just unlucky. Maybe it’s divine retribution 

_ Dopamine and norepinephrine. A chemical defect. _

John’s throat bobbed when he swallowed. A sip of tea, a bite of toast, flames licking at the back of his throat. Sherlock wants to trail his fingers over that perfect adam’s apple. He wants to slit the skin there. Flay John open on the examination table, wants to figure out what makes him so much different than everyone else.

He wants to listen to his steady heartbeat, wants to hold it in his hands. Wants to stitch the wounds shut gently, kiss the scars he leaves with a featherlight touch.

He doesn’t want it to hurt, want John to hurt. 

Soft touches, sweet kisses, a harsh swallow after a long night. A gulp of air after running for too long. John’s heaving breaths, the taste of copper, and the smell of gunpowder. Sherlock wants to swallow him whole.

John is the most delicious thing he’s ever seen and Sherlock is starving. Sherlock is aching.

There’s a boot pressed against his throat. He’s choking. Spit gathers in his mouth and he sputters. He can’t breathe, the pressure too great. The man is putting all of his body weight on Sherlock’s fragile throat.

This is what dying must feel like.

His vision goes black around the edges, blots of darkness in an endless sea of red and gray. There might be blood in his mouth. He can never tell anymore. That might be a sign. It might mean something.

John always talked about being happy like it was something Sherlock didn’t understand, like it was a foreign concept that even the greatest minds couldn’t truly define. 

Sherlock knows what joy is. Sherlock has seen it, has held it in his boney hands and crushed between his fingers in the hopes of never letting go. It was a shiny rock at the bottom of a pond. It was a new chemical mixture. It was the element of surprise.

It is John with his hands stretched over his head, tired eyes, and a yawn on his lips. The hem of his shirt rides up, revealing a soft trail of hair. There’s a dip in his hip bones, a v shape in the muscle. Sherlock wants to touch him there, wants to card his fingers through the wiry hairs. John smiles at him unknowingly, a good morning on his lips. Sherlock won’t smile back.

He knows he can’t hold on anymore.

_ Please just let him be happy _ .

John talked about happiness like it was something abstract. Sherlock hopes beyond all hope that it was just his John being dramatic. He hopes he wasn’t miserable.

He hopes he was right. That he saw the right things, deduced the right motives. He hopes he wasn’t projecting himself onto a clean slate, a twisted tabula rasa of his own creation. He hopes John loved it. He hopes John enjoyed what they had.

The boot leaves and the pressure is gone. The door creaks shut but Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t want to see what remains.

Serbia is cold in the winter, he thinks distantly. If he’s even still in Serbia. If it’s still winter. He can’t really remember, eyes clenched tight. There’s a chill in the air. It clings to his skin. It dries out the blood.

He can see himself, a reflection in the bloody floor in the places where it hasn’t quite dried.

Blue eyes look back at him, distorted and dyed the wrong color. His hair is shaggy now, no longer buzzed short. He reaches up to touch it. It’s unfamiliar under his numb fingers. Long curls soaked in blood and sweat and unmentionable things.

He doesn’t look like himself. He hasn’t in a very long time.

Who has he become? When Sherlock died, who took his place? His transport is the same but oh so different now. Is he the murderer? Did he kill Sherlock Holmes and take his place, slip into his skin and make himself at home inside a body that is no longer his own. 

  
  


Did he replace himself or just show his true colors? Was he always this pale? Were his teeth always crooked and his eyes so tired?

It all looks wrong. It all comes out the wrong way. Was he always this bad?

Will he ever be better?

His eyes slip shut once more and the world spins so fast it hurts. Seconds pass. Hours. Days. Sands grinds between his teeth and he feels his bones break. They tie him up. They mop the floor. They pour water down his throat just to watch him beg for more.

He opens his mouth, lets his tongue loll out, a starving dog at a neighborhood cookout.

They laugh at him, shark-toothed grins and manic eyes. They dump it out on the dirty floor. There’s no more blood but it isn’t clean. It will never be clean.

He licks it up anyway. He’s never been so thirsty.

They whip him some days. It stings like a thousand hornets and burns like a house fire. He goes up in flames, gets swallowed by the swarm. The whip is made of genuine leather. It cuts into his back and tears open old wounds. It’s nothing like the belt. It’s much worse.

It reminds him of Irene.

She carried around a riding crop, threatened to make him beg. She never succeeded, not in the way she wanted to.

John thinks he’s in love with her, thinks he wants her carnally, thinks he craves her because of her intelligence. It’s not true. Irene prefers the company of women and Sherlock prefers John. She’s not really all that interested in him outside of her ego. He’s not interested in her outside of his curiosity.

He thought they could be friends.

She thinks they could be too.

He left her in Croatia. She never called to check. He thinks they might be getting in their own way. She thinks he’s an asshole. They both might be right.

John is so, so wrong.

_ I’m sorry you ever thought you’d be my second choice. _

He’s no longer praying to god. He sings his hymn in a pitch that no-one can hear, searches for his meaning in John’s. He knows no-one is listening. It doesn’t change a thing. He still needs to do something, needs John to know. He needs to apologize.

He knows he can’t love John the right way.

The Las Vegas lights, shouting in the streets, him white knuckling the sheets. It’s filthy. It’s dirty and disgusting and it’s his nails on concrete. There’s coke up his nose. There’s music playing in the distance.

There’s a hand pressing against the button of his jeans; there’s blood in his mouth and on his hands and he can’t quite breathe. It only feels good if his eyes are closed.

It doesn’t feel good at all.

John would hate him if he knew, if he saw, that Sherlock’s body is a crash test car. He throws himself into walls and side rails. He watches the metal dent and his frame crunch on impact. He makes himself fit into places not meant for him. He pushes himself in. He cracks people apart and shoves himself inside. 

He’d ruin John if he was given the chance.

Their lips would touch and his hands would drift and suddenly he’d overstep some unwritten rule, cross a line drawn in the sand when he wasn’t looking.

John would never forgive him. Maybe he’d finally leave Sherlock all alone. 

Maybe their lives would be easier after that.

_ I never want to hurt you. _

But he did.

He took a swan dive off Bart’s and made John watch, and he can’t lie to himself any longer. It wasn’t just to keep John safe.

That was most of it. He did truly need to protect his doctor but it was also about his own selfish needs. He wanted attention, wanted John to see him because he knew it might never happen again. John didn’t need to be there to believe it happened. John being there made it so much more complicated, but it gave Sherlock a chance to explain, a chance to play the victim.

Sherlock just wanted to be seen and in some sick way John watching him die gave him that. It let him say goodbye even though that meant watching John cry. It meant hearing John call out for him, helpless and filled with grief.

It shouldn’t have felt good to hear, but it did. It made him feel needed. It cemented John’s place in his heart, anchored him right between his second and third rib.

Sherlock was never good with friends, always needed too much reassurance. He was always too hot or too cold in rapid swings. There was often no grey area with him and when there was he refused to explain it.

No-one could ever read him and he always refused to elaborate.

John never asked for elaboration. John just tried. John took the shoves and punches and late night fights and never asked for more or less. John just lived by Sherlock’s side.

But Sherlock still needed more proof, needed to die to prove some great big point. Needed to prove his hypothesis.

His greatest experiment yet, the beautiful John Watson, his one and only friend.

He thinks he might regret it, hurting John, toying with him like that. It feels wrong like a stone in his stomach, a sinking rock. It hasn’t hit the bottom yet. It’s suspended in his gut, floating in his stomach acid and making him feel a 100 pounds heavier.

He should regret it more.

John shouldn’t have had to watch. Especially not for Sherlock’s twisted need to feel wanted. John shouldn’t have needed to prove himself that way, but Sherlock craved the validation. He needed to know he was right, that John still cared despite everything he said.

Sherlock knows he doesn’t deserve forgiveness.

But John still wants him home, so he’ll try. He’ll cling to consciousness and beg for water and try his best to think of a way out.

It isn’t going very well. Nothing in his life usually does.

_ I really am sorry. I’m trying. I hope it’s enough _ .

It isn’t.

It probably never will be.

The door creaks open. A whip slams against his back. There isn’t enough flesh left to tear. It slams against the tender muscle and rips through his raw body. The blood has started to pool underneath him again, a red mirror.

He stares down at himself. A pitiful Narcissus. 

Is it love? Is it ego? Is it something more?

He misses John. He misses Mrs. Hudson. He misses Lestrade. He misses Irene, and he even misses Mycroft. He wants to go home.

The whip wraps around his shoulder and tears open the skin on his collarbone. The man laughs and it sounds like Moriarty. They always sound like Moriarty. Maybe Sherlock misses him too. He’s never been good with boundaries, or relationships, or the lines to draw between them.

He can’t look at himself anymore, tears his eyes away from the pools he’s sinking in.

Mycroft is sitting at the edge of the room, dressed in his usual bespoke suit, with a frown pulling the skin on his face tight. He looks sick, pale and worried. It’s been a long time since his mind palace has brought someone out. His subconscious seemingly giving up on keeping him safe.

His brother is watching him closely. It feels like childhood all over again, like judgement from years and years ago. He knows deep down Mycroft means well, that his brother loves him more than life itself, but it doesn’t change anything. Sherlock hates how he loves Mycroft and loves how he hates him.

  
  


He thinks his parents might be to blame. He thinks it might be all his own fault.

He doesn’t know why Mycroft stays. The tree's roots have to end somewhere but Mycroft seems infinite. Mycroft was always so strong, so steady. He shouldn’t have had to be, but Sherlock was always so selfish, so childish.

How he ruins everything, especially those he loves.

The man leaves but Mycroft stays. Sherlock blinks and his outfit changes, a uniform similar to the man before.

“I’m sorry, brother mine. Just hold on a little while longer.”

  
  


Mycroft walks away, the door creaks once more. Sherlock lets his eyes close and his neck go limp, dangling him forward against his chains.

He wonders if John will find him ugly now, broken in all the wrong places, bent out of shape. The metal of his frame dented from car crash after car crash, missing his back teeth and fingernails.

He wonders if he was ever beautiful to begin with, coked up and vicious.

He wonders if he ever even knew what love felt like. He wonders if he’ll ever get the chance. He wonders if John will let him try despite the lines he’s crossed, despite the scars and the gnashing teeth.

_ I love you. I want to make this right. I want to love you right. _

  
  



	14. Yarrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wait and Mycroft doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day I'll upload on time. Probably not. Thanks for sticking around anyway.
> 
> TW: nothing I can think of that isn't in the tags. Pls call me out if I'm wrong.

December comes and snow is falling. It coats the streets in slush and blankets the rooftops in a clean white that shimmers in the cold sun. John is laying in his back on Sherlock’s bedspread, hands clenched in the sheets. It’s December and John is waiting for a call.

It’s been over a month since Sherlock called, voice shaky and soft. And all John can do is wait.

All he can do is stare at the water stains on the ceiling and listen to the distant sounds of Hudson milling around. Sherlock is out there, maybe in the clean white snow, maybe somewhere nice and warm, and John is in bed.

John is tired.

Waiting, healing, worrying, ripping open old wounds, and discovering new ones all take so much energy. He’s drained.

He’s empty and so damn exhausted.

He’s also a little more than pissed off. It’s not the same anger as before, the kind of anger that put his fist through a mirror or made him hate his only friends. It’s a dull simmer just underneath his skin. It’s the kind of anger that doesn’t have a target, the kind doesn’t have an outlet so it just burns until there’s nothing left.

There’s no one he can blame for this. No one that isn’t already dead and in the ground. 

He thought he might blame Sherlock. Maybe even himself. And he did both of those things for a long, long time. But he knows Moriarty is the only truly at fault. Sherlock wouldn’t have gone unless he had to. 

And John… Well, John is tired of beating himself up over someone else’s decisions.

Someone shouts from the street below, a jovial sound. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying. It’s high pitched and excited though. Probably a child playing in the fresh snow.

He wonders if Sherlock will be home in time to see it.

The man had always pretended to hate it when it happened. He shrunk into his coat and turned up his nose at the snow. He always complained about the way the wetness clung to his shoes and tracked across the flat.

But John saw past his whiny attitude. 

Sherlock would smile at the falling snowflakes when he thought no one was watching, would linger outside a little longer than needed, would stare out the window with childlike wonder on his face.

John hopes that Sherlock will get to see the snow again. John hopes he’ll get to see that look one more time.

Mycroft hasn’t called or texted since John put it all together. It’s getting hard to wait but there isn’t much else to do. He rolls over in the bed, releasing his white knuckle grip on the sheets. He has to get up eventually, can’t keep sleeping in Sherlock’s bed and missing a man who may never come back.

Laying around makes it worse. The exhaustion makes it hard to get up, but he knows if he lays around much longer he’ll lay there for the rest of the day, wallowing in something akin to guilt. 

He stands up, floor cold against his bare feet. He’ll make himself some tea, maybe burn some toast, and try to bide his time. Mycroft will call eventually. Whatever he has to say is completely out of John’s control. He can’t save Sherlock now, not this time.

He grimaces, lip curling up. He wishes he could.

But this isn’t some fairy tale. John isn’t a knight in shining armor and Sherlock isn’t his damsel in distress. He’ll do what he can to make 221b ready for Sherlock’s home coming, he’ll drink tea and pace the floors, and he’ll even change the fucking sheets. Because he can control that. 

It’s all he can really do.

Wait. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Clean.

He can’t quite pinpoint when his life became so intertwined with Sherlock’s. He used to be able to exist on his own, mourn his losses and move on. The army was rough and maybe he wasn’t very happy, but he was living.

A sad chuckle fills the silent air of the kitchen.

Sherlock let him thrive, let him truly feel something for the first time in a very long time. A blessing and damn curse.

He never thought he’d be so codependent, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s too late to do anything about it. He’s hooked. He loves his best friend in the most messed up way he can imagine. But what can he do?

Anyone worth their weight in salt would love Sherlock. He’s a genius. He’s kind. He’s a complete and utter bastard and has the sweetest smile.

John never really thought of himself as weak until he met Sherlock. He could have asked for anything and John would have tried his best to deliver. 

He sips his tea and laughs, a real chuckle from deep in his achy chest. He was always a sucker for good cheekbones.

And soft smiles. And dark hair and light eyes. And danger in every form.

Bombs and bullets could never give him the same adrenaline Sherlock could. His favorite rush, his greatest high. Sherlock Holmes.

The bastard better come home soon. John so damn tired of waiting.

Mycroft feels rocks drop in his stomach when he hears the news. A man was found on the Croatian border riddled with bullets. He was a known trafficker on several international watch lists.

The death had Sherlock written all over it. No one else would be so brazen.

He tells Greg immediately, rushed words and shaking hands. He has to leave, has to catch the first flight to Croatia, has to find his baby brother before it’s too late.

At first, it’s a bust. There’s no sign of him in Croatia. No hostel stays, no criminal behavior, no dead bodies or burnt buildings. Mycroft searches high and low to no avail before switching his strategy. He does what he does best, flash his credentials, push governments around, and get his hands on every CCTV camera he can find.

It works.

He doesn’t find Sherlock. No, his brother is far too smart for that, but he does find someone just as helpful. The woman alive and well in Croatia at the same time his brother was causing a scene is no coincidence. It can’t be.

Hunting her down will be hard, but Mycroft is sure she’ll help him. Not for his sake but for Sherlock’s.

Those two had a strange chemistry. Mycroft isn’t sure he’d call it friendship, but it is something.

Knowing she’s in Croatia and catching her turn out to be two very different tasks. She’s cunning, quick on her feet, and very, very annoying. Mycroft can’t stand being behind and it seems she’s always two steps ahead of him. She must have learned her lesson the last time they crossed paths. Never underestimate a Holmes.

He does eventually catch up to her in a low lit diner with poorly cooked food and terrible customer service. She’s got eight girls with her, each one of them leaning towards her, seeking safety in her presence.

Mycroft assumes they are Sherlock’s doing. A dead human trafficker, Irene Adler, suddenly popping up, and a group of terrified girls don’t exactly leave much to interpretation. 

She glares at him through thick rimmed sunglasses, shifting forward in her seat. She lays her arm casually across the table, putting a barrier between Mycroft and the girls. She’s not afraid of him, not really, but she does know what he’s capable of. She’s a wolf in sheep's clothing, protecting her flock from other wolves.

He grins at her, lopsided and all teeth. “Ms. Adler. We need to talk.”

“Do we, Mr. Holmes?” She snarls back at him, white teeth stark against bright red lips. She’s defensive, borderline possessive over the girls. They all keep their eyes on him, muscles tense and ready to run.

He relaxes his posture, loosens his body language. He doesn’t want to scare them. It’s easy to see that they’ve already been through too much.

“We do.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m looking for my brother.”

Irene laughs and the girls all cringe. It’s a mean noise, sharp and venomous. Mycroft stands his ground. “Aren’t we all?”

“Look, Ms. Adler, he’s been missing for months. I’m worried about him.”

She looks genuinely shocked by his words, glasses slipping down her nose. One of the girls, a petite blonde with tired eyes, seems worried. Her pupils go wide and she’s staring at Mycroft, waiting for more information.

“I don’t know where he is, Mycroft. He never met me, just sent the girls over and disappeared.”

“I understand that but I also know that he’ll pick up if you call.”

She frowns, lipstick cracking at the edges of her mouth. “I’ve tried calling. He hasn’t been answering.”

Mycroft's stomach does flips. If Sherlock isn’t picking up the phone for Irene, something must be terribly wrong. Irene seems to realize this too, worry lines forming on her forehead. She’s picking at her nail beds, chipping the pristine red polish.

Irene Adler is nervous. Mycroft’s heart rate picks up.

“Do you have any idea of where he might have been headed? Any at all?” He can’t keep the urgency out of his voice.

The Woman shrugs. The girls all glance at one another, confused and worried. Mycroft almost gives up hope, ready to start back at square one, when Irene speaks up. “Maybe Serbia. There’s a drug ring there. It runs deep, lots of dead bodies and dirty politicians involved. It seems like something Sherlock would look into.”

“Thank you, Irene.”

As he turns to leave, she speaks once more. “Find my boy, Mr. Holmes. The world is better with him in it.”

He can’t make any promises, but he’ll try. He’ll do everything in his power to make sure the world still has Sherlock Holmes. Serbia here he comes.

The Serbian government is less than unhelpful. They’re disgustingly corrupt, overtly money hungry, and get on Mycroft’s very last nerve. CCTV isn’t an option anymore. Mycroft’s only leverage is money, and it will only get him so far.

He takes to the streets, looking for any sign of Sherlock. Dealers are unusually quiet, almost afraid to talk. Something is very wrong here.

When he does finally locate Sherlock, everything is worse than he could have imagined. His brother is being held captive in a remote warehouse by Serbian thugs with a long history of violence. Murder, human trafficking, drug trades, and politcal sabotage. These men seem to do it all.

And they have his baby brother locked up in some cold dark room.

Mycroft hasn’t stopped feeling sick since he landed in Croatia. He hasn’t slept properly or eaten in days, occupied by thinking of a way to save Sherlock with minimal damage. He hasn’t done leg work in years. It’s much harder than he remembers. So many variables. So little time.

He decides a soft entry is the best method. He’ll go undercover. It won’t be hard with his background and monetary funds. Coming up with a new identity and infiltrating the lower levels is the first step. It won’t take long to get in. Serbia is a cesspool of criminal activity. Getting deeper will be the hard part.

Getting himself and Sherlock out alive will be even harder.

Mycroft sighs. He hates getting his hands dirty but it's for Sherlock. He’s always done everything for his darling little brother even when he tore his own life apart with drugs. Some things will never change.

He tightens the laces of his boots and tugs on his jacket. He shoots off one last message to Greg before going out, hoping it won’t be the last.

_ I love you. I’ll try to be home soon. _

He knows Greg won’t answer, probably fast asleep on the couch. He knows Greg will worry and he knows he’ll probably be pissed when he comes home. Hopefully it will all be worth it. Hopefully he’ll get to say it in person.

He’d hate for Gregory to suffer the same fate as John.

He’d hate for John to suffer more.

He huffs, low and annoyed. He doesn’t know when he started to care so much. The Ice Man melts and there’s no one to blame but himself. God, he’s gotten soft in his old age.


End file.
